


We Are Gonna Be Friends

by zjofierose



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for this prompt on the kink-meme. which then ballooned like a motherfuc monster. Spock and Kirk meet as kids, to the theme of the White Stripes "We Are Gonna Be Friends"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jimmy the Exploder

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [定能做朋友](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086277) by [Eki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eki/pseuds/Eki), [wqui125](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wqui125/pseuds/wqui125)



_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year One**_  
 **Title** : Jimmy the Exploder  
 **Rating** : PG (eventual NC-17, but not for a long while)  
 **Pairing** : k/s pre-slash  
 **Length** : ~4k  
 **Genre** : kid!fic, AU  
 **Beta** : the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious [](http://13empress.livejournal.com/profile)[**13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/)   
 **Summary** : written for [this prompt on the kink-meme](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/9684.html?thread=8220884#t8220884). which then ballooned like a ~~motherfuc~~ monster. Spock and Kirk meet as kids, to the theme of the White Stripes "We Are Gonna Be Friends"  
 **A/N** : dedicated with much love and humble adoration to [](http://13empress.livejournal.com/profile)[**13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/) , who kicked my ass mercilessly with very large boots, and who came up with the mural featured in this chapter. You. Frikkin. Rock.  
So,originally supposed to be brief, now it is a 12 parter to the original theme of the song "we are gonna be friends", with each chapter named for a white stripes song. honestly? i wasn't even that huge a ws fan before i wrote this, but they've definitely grown on me. i recommend listening to the songs for each chapter- i'll try to include a you-tube link to the songs at the end.  
i will try (TRY) to update this weekly- i've got most of it written, but there are some blank spots to fill in. and occasionally RL rears its ugly head. BUT- it should be pretty regular. Wail and moan at me if it's not.

 

 

 _2237 late summer_

 

He could see it, just there, at the far end of the meadow. It stood tall and proud, interrupting the otherwise unending skyline, rising a good hundred feet from where its root system stretched sucking fingers into the rich Iowan soil. A magnificent specimen of theEastern Cottonwood, Spock thought to himself, and tucking his guidebook and data padd under his arm, he trundled off across the field as quickly as his short legs could take him while still retaining some semblance of dignity.

            The shade from the enormous tree stretched for yards around the base of the trunk where it stood at the edge of the meadow, toes of the roots reaching into mud of a small creek that meandered along the edges of the new property. Spock shivered lightly as he stepped into the shadow of the massive being; the sun baked down on the fields, and he enjoyed the heat rising from the soil. His hand stretched out involuntarily as he approached the great trunk, fingers delicately stroking the light grey bark.

            _Populus deltoides_ , subspecies _deltoides_ , of the Family Salicaceae. His fingers traced the surface reverently, pushing lightly, following the dusty whorls of peeling bark, the knobby twigs of the lowest branches. If he were human, he would have sighed in pleasure.

            Grasping a leaf firmly in his two small hands, he pulled it backward against the joint, freeing it with a gentle _pop_. Leaf procured, he settled down in the long grass, scrolling through the programs on his padd until he came to the drawing app. The leaf was large, triangular, and toothed. Flat stem, dark green in color. Clutching his stylus in his fist, he began to draw.

 

            Spock gasped suddenly awake, startled straight up from his unplanned nap by a large thump and the sound of branches whipping back and forth. His opened eyes were met head on by the straightforward blue gaze of a stranger, dirty faced and shirtless, browned from the sun and bedecked with leaves. He could feel himself gape in unabashed surprise.

            The other boy tipped his head just so, blinked once, and then began to smile. He was missing two of his front teeth, and a rather spectacular smear of mud was crusting from the end of an eyebrow to the tip of his nose, but these imperfections in no way lessened the impact of that brilliant grin. He stuck out a grubby hand.

“Heya! 'm Jimmy! Who're you?”

            Spock regarded the proffered digits with something approaching alarm. He did not want to touch this filthy stranger. He also did not want to give offense. What was the appropriate response? He could not think fast enough, and he could see the expression on the other boy's face beginning to flicker into disappointment, so he raised his shields and gingerly touched his fingers to the small hand in front of him. It was not long enough to be a handshake, not really, but the boy seemed satisfied that the social niceties had been observed. Without further ado, he bounced up in front of Spock, grinning and waving his arm.

“C'mon! Mom's making cookies! I'll race you back!”

            He was off like a shot, bare feet thudding against the baked earth, hair glinting white and gold in the late afternoon sun. Spock stared after him in wonder, then gathered his stylus, his book, and his padd. It was only logical to follow the boy. After all, he was here to learn.

 

 

 _2237 fall_

Spock hung slightly behind his mother as they entered the classroom. He knew that it was illogical to feel anxious, especially since this was the room where he spent nearly seven hours a day, but the strangeness of being here after dark with his parents was unsettling.

            It had been 9 weeks since the start of the school year, and the cinder-block room was covered in evidence of the students’ diligent labors. Graded spelling tests adorned the bulletin board next to the door, hand-colored pumpkin cut-outs marched drunkenly in a wavering line to the edge of the windows. All of the other parents and students had departed already, leaving Spock to sit quietly at his desk while his parents roamed the room, inspecting his work. He forced his fingers to relax from his fists and lay flat on the desk, waiting patiently for his parents and his teacher to conduct their business.

“Mrs. Kirk, it will just take a moment, can you just…”

“I gotta get home. Jimmy! Get over here!”

“Please, Mrs. Kirk, it’s very important that I talk…”

“Sam! Put that down! Jimmy, I thought I said _get_!”

“Five minutes, Mrs. Kirk, just five…”

“Oh, all _right_ , already. Sam, go wait in the truck. Jimmy- in here, _now_.”

Spock’s eyes widened as his teacher hurried into the room, a piece of hair drifting from its usual tight braid. She seemed flustered. She gestured distractedly at the woman who followed her in.

“Ah, Mr and Mrs…Grayson? I believe you know Mrs. Kirk?”

            There was a pause. The woman, Mrs. Kirk, was unlike any other adult Spock had met. He had only encountered her once before, and she still seemed strange to him. She was petite, short with a wiry frame gone thin. Her hair was a graying shade of blond, tied into a lank ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore a pair of too-large jeans held up with a belt under an oversizedStarfleetAcademy sweatshirt, worn through at the elbows and showing a light brown stain down the front. Coffee, Spock assumed. He could see Jimmy trailing behind her, squirming in her unrelenting hold on his wrist. He looked as anxious as Spock felt. Jimmy caught sight of him, his face lighting in sudden relief, and he broke free of his mother’s hold with a quick jerk, running over to fling himself into the desk next to Spock’s. His face was scrubbed cleaner than Spock had often seen it, but his t-shirt showed signs of mud around the hem.

“Hi, I’m Amanda Grayson.” Spock’s mother strode forward, breaking the silence with a cheerful smile and an outstretched hand. The other woman regarded her warily, then took it briefly before letting go.

“Winona. Winona Kirk.”

“Sarek. It is a pleasure to meet the mother of one of my son’s classmates.” His father tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Do I recall correctly that you live in the house 0.93 miles west of us?”

Winona eyeballed Sarek balefully, then raised her hand in a surprisingly easy ta’al. “You do, sir.”

Sarek blinked. “Please, there is no need for formality. We are both parents of students in this class, and are here as such.”

            It was at that moment that their teacher, Mrs. Fletcher, chose to break in, clearing her throat and gesturing for the adults to take the seats in front of her desk. She peered over her spectacles owlishly, waiting as their parents finished settling, then cleared her throat again. Jimmy had begun to fidget.

“Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, Mrs Kirk. I have asked you here tonight to speak to you about your sons, Spock and James.” She peered at them again, reassuring herself that they were paying attention. Spock felt slightly nauseated. There was clearly something important about to be said.

“Spock and James… are two very smart little boys.” She paused for effect, and shot a quelling glare at Amanda’s beaming face. “In fact, they are too smart.” Amanda laughed, a loud noise in the silent room.

“Mrs. Grayson, this is no laughing matter.” She frowned severely. “Spock completes his work in less than ten percent of the time it takes the other students. He can read and write in two languages, seems to be capable of solving lower level algebra problems, and, given that the librarian has had to discipline him for taking books from the middle school science section, is fully competent in many areas of science and humanities.” She paused. “James, on the other hand…” Jimmy froze at the sound of his name, fingers poised to throw the paper airplane he had spent the last 2.37 minutes constructing.

“I wouldn’t even know James could read if it weren’t for Spock. He does not do any work in class, preferring instead to entertain his classmates, focusing especially on Spock. He is an earnest child, but I suspect him of having attention deficit disorder. I have tried tutoring him personally, but he is utterly unable to focus without some sort of physical activity. After the last session, Spock politely took me aside after class and proceeded to inform me that I did not need to concern myself with teaching Jimmy to read, as he was already reading nearly at Spock’s level. I expressed disbelief, and he went on to show me the schematics which he and Jimmy had jointly drawn up for a small robotic spaceship.”

            Spock could see his mother’s shoulders shaking as she suppressed her laughter. He felt slightly betrayed. There was clearly nothing at all funny about this. He could not see his father’s expression from where he sat, but Winona just looked bored. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, pulling a cigarette from her pocket and sticking it behind her ear.

“Yeah, so the little buggers are smart. That’s old news.” She cracked her knuckles. “What’re ya gonna do about it?”

            Mrs. Fletcher looked taken aback.

“Well, normally, in a situation like this, we would skip the student up a grade. However, since they are both very advanced, skipping them up one grade would likely make no material difference in their level of boredom. Also, because there are two of them, it is more feasible to keep them together and allow them to challenge each other. That is the basis of my proposal for going forward.”

“And?” Winona was clearly interested in getting to the point.

“Well…” Mrs. Fletcher sputtered, then recovered herself. “Simply put, I would like to introduce Spock and James to a personally tailored curriculum, designed for them by the school counselor after they have completed some aptitude tests. They would still be required to participate in classroom activities, and to complete a certain amount of work with their peers. It is important that they not feel alienated from their classmates.” She flushed briefly, with a surreptitious look at Sarek.

“This gonna cost anything?” Winona’s foot was tapping on her chair rung, and she was casting longing glances at the door. Spock was suddenly struck by her resemblance to her son.

“No, Mrs. Kirk. At least, not initially… there may be some expenses later on, in terms of more advanced equipment, and potential field trips. We’d have to see where this goes.”

“I’m widowed and on a pension. I don’t have money for anything outside of making sure he gets on the bus each morning.”

“Due to the nature of my job, I have access to a great many technologies and other resources which could be of assistance in this matter. I will happily provide them, both for Spock and for James.” Sarek inclined his head politely. Winona curled her lip.

“Don’t need your charity. Sir.” She stood abruptly. “I consent to whatever. Jimmy’s smart, he should get the best he can outta this crappy-ass school system. Just let me know if there’re any papers need signing.” She turned, pushing the chair out of her way. “James! Get your butt over here, we’re going.”

Jimmy scrambled down from the windowsill, knocking plants askew and catching his shirt-tail on the corner of the heating unit. He pulled free with an audible rip, and scurried over to his mother’s side.

“Mrs. Kirk, there are many important details that…”

“You’ve had your five minutes and then some. I’m going home. Jimmy!”

Amanda waved cheerily. “Nice to meet you!”

The door slammed. They were gone. Spock could feel every bone in his phalanges where his hands had been clutching each other. Mrs. Fletcher heaved a sigh.

“As you can see, Kirks of all generations can be a little… difficult.”

Amanda smiled, teeth bared. Spock thought Mrs. Fletcher must be quite stupid if she didn’t recognize a threatening facial expression when she saw it.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I rather like them.”

 

 

 _2238 winter_

 

The house was large, but dilapidated, the paint peeling from the weathered boards of the eaves, the walk cracking where it met the concrete slab in front of the door. The windows were dark, with no promise of warmth flickering in the darkening afternoon. Spock shuddered involuntarily.

Jimmy dug for the key beneath the threadbare doormat, then turned the lock open, and returned the key to its original position. The heavy door swung open into a darkened hallway, gaping before them, and before Spock could say a word, Jimmy’s golden head had disappeared into the gloom.

Spock advanced cautiously, the winter light slanting down from a high window in the wall. There was an abandoned pair of shoes lying against the wall, and an impressive collection of dust bunnies under the hallway bench. The entryway was cold and sterile in an abandoned sort of way, and Spock shrank further into his coat.

“Jimmy?” he called, his voice thin in the air. “Jimmy?”A little louder.

“C’mon, Spock, I’m just upstairs!”

Spock drew himself upright. Only superstitious humans were uncomfortable in the dark. He was a Vulcan, and therefore immune to such vagaries of the imagination. He pushed through a door into a larger room, a dining room from the look of it. There were candles on the table, but the silver holders bore a thick patina of tarnish. Papers spilled from the desk in the corner, and there were cobwebs, Spock noted, in the upper northwest corner of the room.

At the far end of the room a large oak staircase marched up the wall, disappearing into the dark recesses of the upper level of the house. Spock made his way over carefully, stepping around a chair and attempting to avoid knocking over a stack of magazines balanced precariously against the wall.

He climbed the stairs slowly, hand on the banister. As he ascended, a light became visible, shining out of a doorway facing the end of the landing at the top of the stairs. Spock walked quickly to the door, the dusty floorboards creaking underfoot. He paused in the doorway, taking in the sight before him.

Jimmy was sitting in the middle of his unmade bed, legs crossed and staring up at the ceiling. His room was relatively small, but high-ceilinged; the bed was a large, old, four-posted number, with a nightstand to one side and a bookshelf covering most of the far wall. A desk in the corner held a number of paperbacks and several ongoing projects of a mechanical nature, as well as a small collection of plastic water glasses. It was warmer here- Spock could see the small glow of a space heater in the corner, and stepped fully into the room.

“Hey Spock, come over here!” Jimmy beckoned from the bed, smiling at him. “I want to show you something.”

Spock crossed the room, kicking off his shoes and climbing up onto the mattress to settle next to the other boy.

“Look.” Jimmy pointed, tipping his head back, and indicating the ceiling with one skinny finger.

Spock obligingly tilted his head to gaze at the space above them, and caught his breath in amazement. There, spiraling above them where once had been plain white plaster, was the galaxy. Stretching glowing fingers out from the center, painted in breathtaking detail against a pitch-dark formless void. Around the edges of the room were planets, all accurate in color, though not to scale, and labeled in both their standard and native alphabets. Sol and all her planets in a line on two sides, then other Federation members on the other two walls; Andoria, Tellar, Orion. He could see Vulcan, delicately red and orange, two spheres over from the top of the east facing window.

The walls, he noticed now, bore their own murals; an ocean scene with pirates and whales on the western wall, a jungle scene at the south, complete with pythons hanging from trees and an elephant in the corner. The north wall was glacial, the night sky painted over the top half while polar bears and seals lazed on ice nearer the floor. The eastern wall was the most unadorned, holding the room’s one large window, over which was painted the rising sun, its rays reaching down around the window to touch a peaceful meadow of grass and spring flowers.

“It is remarkable.” Spock studied it again, his attention fixed on the celestial scene above their heads. “Who painted it, do you know?”

Jimmy flopped back onto the bed, hooking his arms behind his head as he stared up at it.  “Yeah, my mom and dad painted it when they found out I was going to be born. Mom’s the scientist- she made sure everything was accurate, but Dad was the one who painted it.” He smiled. “Sam’s got one too- his is different from mine.” He bit his lip. “Mom says that’s when they were happiest. When Sam was born, and then again when they knew they were having me.” His face was wistful in the fading light.

He rolled over suddenly, smiling at Spock. His front teeth had begun to come in, but he was about to lose a canine, and liked to move it about with his tongue as he spoke. “Hey, you want some water or some juice or something? We can have a snack before we go to your house to do our homework.”

“That would be agreeable.”

“Come on!”

Jimmy was out the door and halfway down the stairs before Spock had shrugged his shoes back on.

The kitchen made Spock’s eyes widen, but Jimmy didn’t seem to notice. He climbed agilely onto a stepstool next to the counter, extracting two glasses from an upper cupboard and clanking them on the sticky counter. A pile of dishes stood in the sink, the glasses overflowing with stale water. The plants on the windowsill were mostly dead, save for a few shoots straggling toward the sun. Spock could feel the tightness in his throat rising.

Jimmy stuck a glass under the faucet and turned it on. A rattle and a creak shook through the subterranean pipes, and a sudden gush of rust-colored water shot out, which Jimmy dumped, waiting for the stream to clear before filling the glass and handing it to Spock. He took the other and filled it before draining it and filling it again.

“Jimmy…” Spock looked around. “Surely something is wrong? Is your mother ill?”

Jimmy looked perplexed. “No, she’s at work.” He frowned. “How come?”

Spock gestured vaguely, attempting to reign in his instinctive revulsion at the state of the kitchen. There were _fruit flies_ circling the wilted bananas on the counter.

“I…why does your house look like this? Does your mother not value her space?”

Jimmy looked around him, his face falling further into confusion. “Look like what? Spock, it’s just my house…”

“You mean… this is normal?” Spock felt his eyebrows could not climb any higher without sprouting legs and crawling into his hair.

Jimmy shrugged. “Um… yeah?”

“But Jimmy… this is _unhygienic_!”

Jimmy shrugged again. “’m not sick.”

Spock sighed. It was a horrifying task, but clearly no one else was prepared to take the responsibility for their living quarters. If none of them were to do it, then he must- it was unacceptable for persons to exist in such disarray. He rolled up his sleeves carefully, wanting to keep his clothing as far away from the sink as possible.

“What are you doing?” Jimmy regarded him curiously, propping his elbows on the counter.

“Preparing to wash your dishes. They are in an intolerable state.”

“Oh. Um. Ok?”

Spock coaxed the water into a temperature approaching hot and began to rinse the dishes, opening the dishwasher in readiness to accept the wet plates and silverware. There was a rustle behind him, and Jimmy turned.

“Hey. You. What the hell are you doing?”

            Spock turned. The boy addressing him was older, about ten or eleven, and tall. This must be _Jimmy’s brother_ , he thought. The family resemblance was striking. The newcomer’s eyes were wide in his freckled face.

“I said, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Spock blinked owlishly. “I am preparing to clean this kitchen.”

The look of dismay on the boy’s face rapidly began to shift into anger.

“Who the hell are you? And why the hell are you cleaning our kitchen?”

He took a step closer, his upper body leaning in. Abruptly Jimmy stepped forward, putting himself between Spock and his brother, reaching his hand toward the other boy.

“Hey, Sam, leave him alone. He’s just… trying to help.”

“We don’t need some little pointy-eared alien’s help, for fuck’s sake. We’re _fine_.”

“Sam…”

The boy turned onto Jimmy, gripping his arm hard enough that Spock could see him wince.

“Is this your doing? Is this creepy little kid your freaky brainiac friend I hear so much about?”

“He’s not creepy! He’s Spock!”

“Get him out.” Sam gave Jimmy a shake. “Now.”

He turned and stomped out of the room. In the distance a door slammed. Jimmy looked at his shoes.

“I… I’m sorry, Spock. You should probably go home.”

Spock gathered himself. Never had he seen a display like that. It was utterly illogical, both the reaction and the subsequent resulting behavior. He turned off the water, and wiped his hands. The look in Jimmy’s eyes when he met them was one part shame, one part anger.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”

Spock nodded silently. He collected his coat, and let himself out the front door, walking home as the moon rose over the frozen prairie.

  
 _2238 spring_

 

The last day of school had been celebrated with a fanfare that Spock had found wholly unexpected. The whole notion that school attendance would cease for a time period consisting of months was completely incomprehensible to him- he understood the history well enough, and the ancient necessity of crop harvest, but why this woeful neglect of education would have been allowed to persist beyond the mechanization of most farm labor was a mystery to him.

            His mother said it was psychological, that humans need time off to assimilate information, and that children in particular required unstructured time for independent learning, but Spock felt… slightly unmoored at the lack of a formal structure to his day.

            This morning he had asked his mother to provide him with an acceptable schedule of tasks and studies to complete his day, and had been summarily shooed from the kitchen and told to “go find little Jimmy Kirk and get him to explain to you the meaning of ‘play outside’.”

            “Playing outside”, it seemed, consisted of getting as filthy as humanly possible in as small a window of time as could be arranged. They had gone wading in the creek, where Jimmy had shown him how to bind twigs together with grass stems, making small floatable rafts to race down the water way. It had been an easy extrapolation to construct a rather primitive set of miniature sailing ships, which, though they rode rather low in the water, stood at least a 48.75% chance of making it all the way to the bridge in town before coming apart. After the creek, they had climbed to the top of the nearest hill and proceeded to spend fifty seven minutes in the pursuit of rolling down the hill on their sides. Jimmy rolled down the hill seventeen times, enough times that he could only walk in a straight line after sitting with his head between his grubby knees for a minimum of five minutes. Spock allowed himself to participate a single time, as all non-life-threatening experiences are worth attempting at least once, but found the sensations of the resulting disorientation disagreeable, though he was willing to admit that the act of rolling itself was somewhat… exhilarating.

            Following the hill rolling, they had engaged in a game which Jimmy called “Hide and Seek” in the corn fields behind the Kirk house. Spock had expected that the game would give him an unfair advantage, given the simple premise of the game itself and his generally superior hearing, eyesight, and speed. He had not counted on the overwhelming nature of the cornfield itself- it was young corn yet, but at four and a half feet high, it was already over their heads. Any gentle breeze whispered through thousands of leaves, a delicate susurrus which conveniently obliterated any sound of his quarry slipping away to a new hiding place. Green flooded his vision, an ever moving sea of waving stems, obscuring his vision and obstructing his line of sight.

            He had eventually caught Jimmy, but not by pursuit. Picking a row of corn, he sat down in the middle of it, remaining low enough to not attract a quick glance, and waited instead for Jimmy to appear in front of him. He did, and Spock reached out a hand to grasp him, shocking the boy into a loud gasp, followed by gales of laughter.

            It was only that night as he lay in bed, hair still damp from his bath, that he remembered how exactly Jimmy’s eyes had matched the high-flung color of the summer sky.

 _  
[ **The White Stripes: Jimmy the Exploder**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F02sMznHeec)  
Now Jimmy  
Well, do you want an explosion now?_

 _Yeah Jimmy  
Do you want to explode now?_

 _Yeah monkey  
Now you seeing red now  
Yeah monkey  
Jumping on the bed now_

 _Hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo_

 _Green apples  
On the tree and growing now  
Green apples  
Are gonna be exploding now_

 _Yeah monkey  
Are you seeing red now?  
Yeah monkey  
Jumping on the bed now_

 _Woo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo_

 


	2. Sister Do You Know My Name

**Title** : Sister, Do You Know My Name  
 **Rating** : PG (eventual NC-17, but not for a long while)  
 **Pairing** : k/s pre-slash  
 **Length** : ~3k  
 **Genre** : kid!fic, AU  
 ****

  
for the record, ages in the last chapter would have been jimmy at 4-5, and spock about 6-7. this chapter, it's 5-6, and 7-8.)

 _2238 late summer_

 

Jimmy pulls the wooden spoon out of his mouth with a wet pop. The stool he's kneeling on wiggles briefly as he adjusts his weight, trying to lean close enough to see into the large mixing bowl without leaning close enough to get told to get out of the way. The batter in the bowl is thickening as Amanda stirs it, smelling intoxicatingly of bananas and molasses. She gives the contents a last good push before hefting the blue and white vessel and positioning it over the pre-greased baking pan. Spock steps wordlessly forward under his mother's elbow and begins to scrape the batter out with short precise motions. His hand with the spatula is deliberate, exacting.

When the pan is full and placed in the oven, and the mixing bowl and other dish-like debris placed in the sink, Amanda wipes her hands on a towel and gestures for them both to sit. Spock folds himself carefully into one of the ladder back chairs at the table, his toes just resting on the floor. Jimmy climbs onto the window bench across from Spock, swinging his legs, enjoying the repetitive muffled thump as his heels impact the wood beneath him. Spock twitches an eyebrow at him, and he rolls his eyes, but stops.

Amanda sets an apple on the bare wood of the table in front of each of them, fresh-washed and gleaming, and grabs a chair. Spock's mom sits like no other adult Jim has ever seen- she turns the tall chairs around and straddles them, chin resting on the top rung of the chair back, elbows on the table. Jimmy likes Spock's mom, likes her a lot. Sometimes he feels bad, because really, secretly, he likes her more than he likes his own mom. She's pretty, and she's fun, and she always smells good. She doesn't patronize them, but she doesn't ask impenetrable thickets of questions either. She just is, and he likes that.

Right now, however, she's eyeballing them in a way that reminds him that she is, in fact, an adult, and he's starting to get nervous. Spock is doing his best unflappable impression, but after a moment, he cracks.

 ****

“Mother? Is there something about which you wished to speak with us?”

 ****

Amanda reaches over and ruffles his straight black hair. Spock endures it gracefully, shooting her a look that is equal parts affection and exasperation. He smoothes his bangs back into place with one hand, looking expectantly back at her.

 ****

“Yeah, kiddo, I guess there is.” Amanda sighs lightly and rubs at her forehead with one hand. “Spock, I had a call from the school today. They want me to come in for another meeting.”

 ****

Spock's eyes widen, then narrow. “I do not understand. I have been given the impression that I am completing my work satisfactorily. Was there a reason given?”

 ****

Amanda frowns. “Well, not specifically. They wanted your father there as well, so I told them it would have to wait. He's off-planet until the beginning of November. But they did mention that it concerned both of you...” she turns to look at Jimmy. Jimmy stares intently at the table, spinning the apple on its end like a top. He feels guilty, though he can't think of any reason the school would be calling. He's been trying really hard to be good. He's done all of his homework, and hasn't been building paper spaceships in class. He hasn't even been selling his homemade slingshots after school anymore.

 ****

Amanda's elbow catches his, and she grins at him. “Hey, kid, don't be so serious. I'm sure they've called your mom, but it can't be discipline or they would have just said so. It'll all be fine.”

 ****

Jimmy smiles back, but as he walks home that evening, he can feel the pit of his stomach sour with apprehension. He's been trying, really, he has. What has he done wrong this time?

 

  


_2238 fall_

 

It’s not the first time Jimmy has overheard Spock’s parents talking; Spock’s family believes in having conversations out in the open, and as far as he can tell, doesn’t keep secrets. But this is the first time he’s overheard them talking about _him_.

He pauses just beyond the kitchen door.

“I went over to their house today, Sarek. You wouldn’t believe it.”

Amanda is chopping vegetables, the sound of her knife against the cutting board swift and decisive. One carrot, then a second, a third. Jim can hear the frown in her voice from where he stands.

Sarek waits.

“It’s like…” the chopping pauses, and Jimmy can see her wave her hands in his mind’s eye, “it’s like every clichéd broken home you could imagine. Dishes piled high, blinds kept closed, ashtrays overflowing. No wonder Jimmy spends so much time here.” The rhythm of the blade resumes.

“Not all women are as exemplary as you, Wife.” There is a hint of amusement in Sarek’s voice.

“That’s not what I mean.” An exasperated sigh. “I mean, it’s unhealthy over there. Not to the point of danger, at least I don’t think so, but definitely to the point of not being good for those boys.”

The chopping stops. A scraping sound begins- potatoes, Jimmy thinks, being grated. His stomach growls in anticipation.

“You have met Mrs. Kirk previously, have you not?” Sarek’s query is oddly muffled, and Jim nearly gives himself away by giggling when he realizes that the Vulcan is speaking with his mouth full.

The scraping pauses, then continues a bit more slowly. Amanda is thinking.

“I have, yes, but only in public situations. This was the first time I’ve interacted with her one on one, and in an informal setting.” The scraping stops. Water runs.

“Perhaps this state of affairs is a recent development?” Sarek’s voice is normal again.

“Hmm. It’s possible. Or at least, this level of it is. She’s always been a bit… grey. Never dressed too well, always a bit frowsy around the edges. Nice enough, I suppose, in a very distant way. She doesn’t seem to have any friends, and doesn’t seem interested in making any. Always smelled of cigarettes.”

“It is likely, given her personal history, that she struggles with depression. Being a single parent is difficult, regardless of one’s species, and humans often have less social network to assist them than a Vulcan would.” Sarek’s tone is calm, reasonable. “Being a widow is also difficult, especially the widow of a hero.”

Amanda sighs. “Yes, you’re right. And with kids like hers… Sam, I don’t know as well, but based on what I hear from Spock, he’s got all the markers of an up and coming troublemaker. And Jimmy, well, he’s just way too smart for his own good. Sweet little boy, no question, but my _god_ , that kid’s ADD would try any parent. He’s smart, fast, and into _everything_!”

Jimmy feels his face flush hot with embarrassment. He thought Amanda liked him, and fear that she doesn’t settles into a tight ball at the bottom of his stomach.

Footsteps, water running. The clank of plates being set out.

“Perhaps there is something you can do for her, Wife. You say she needs a friend- could you become that friend?”

Jimmy can tell Amanda is thinking that over by the extended rattle of silverware.

“Maybe. I dunno, though. I don’t think she likes me very much. Jimmy’s precocious, but he’s only five, and little kids aren’t very subtle. If she _is_ depressed, it can’t make her feel any better to see her son so obviously preferring someone else’s home to his own.” Amanda pauses, and Jimmy can feel the shame course through him. He loves his mom, and he doesn’t like to think about why she is different from other kids’ moms. To think that some of that might be his fault makes his tummy hurt. He will do better, he resolves. James T. Kirk will be the best son his mother could want. He’s sure that’s what his dad would want, too.

“Maybe I’ll make them start spending more time over at the Kirk place” Amanda muses. “Spock’ll understand, and they seem utterly insistent on spending all their time together anyway, what can location matter? And maybe that will give me an excuse to go over there and talk toWinona more, see if I can’t draw her out a bit.” Her voice is enthused. The sound of a kiss. “Thank you, Husband, you are logical as always.”

Sarek makes the muted rumbling noise that Jimmy knows is the Vulcan equivalent of a laugh, and Jimmy steals away. They’ll call him and Spock for dinner soon, and he doesn’t want to be caught listening in the doorway. His stomach churns quietly. He doesn’t really feel very hungry anymore.

 

 

 _2239 winter_

 

Jimmy spits out a clump of grass, and thinks that maybe he should have just let that last comment slide, instead of telling Zach Hutchison exactly what to do with his filthy mouth, but… you just can’t let other kids say bad things about your mom. Sam wouldn’t, that’s for sure.

Another punch lands on his arm, and he grunts, curling up with his arms over his head. He can hear Zach still taunting him, and the other guys laughing it up. He really wants to take another swing, but they’re really a lot bigger than him, these fifth graders, and he’s not stupid. Not really. Not most days.

“Aww, lookit the little baby, all curled up!”

A kick lands in his ribs, but he bites his lip hard and doesn’t reply.

“Whaddya think, boys? Is the baby crying?”

Laughter.

“I bet he is. I bet he’s crying for his mommy, his crazy slut of a mommy.”

Jimmy can feel his fists clench of their own accord.

“Hey baby, whatcha gonna do?”

Another kick, the tip of a worn sneaker thudding just behind his shoulder blade.

“You gonna stand up and fight us like a man? Or are you just gonna lay there like a little pansy and cry?”

Jimmy squeezes his eyes shut and waits. It’s all he can do, he thinks, really, in spite of the shame writing in his gut. He really can’t get in trouble again.

“You will cease this behavior _immediately_.”

A new voice, cold and… furious?

“Yeah?” The sneer drips from Zach’s tone. “And who’s gonna make us?”

“If you require persuasion, I shall be happy to supply it.”

“ _You_? The nerdy little alien pipsqueak?”

The laughter is long and loud.

“That I’d like to see.”

“If you leave now, this altercation will not need to continue.” The tone is steady, assured.

“Aww, boys, the alien wants to save his boyfriend, but he’s too scared!”

“I am not afraid of you.”

“Big words for a funny-looking runt like you. C’mon, gremlin, show us what you got.”

Jimmy picks himself up from the ground just in time to see Zach take a swing at Spock which flies wide. Spock ducks effortlessly under it, and delivers a push to Zach’s sternum that leaves him sprawling on the ground several feet away, his face blank with shock.

Jimmy gapes.

Zach picks himself up off the ground, the look in his eyes murderous, and gestures to his friends.

“All right, kid, now you’re gonna get it. Nobody dicks around with me. C’mon, boys, let’s get him!”

His movements are smooth, nearly lethargic for all that they’re fast, as Spock ducks every blow that comes his way while managing to deliver stinging jabs and bruising punches at every turn. Jimmy stands mute, dumbfounded at the sight in front of him.

It doesn’t last long. Spock gets in one last punch at Zach’s nose, which crunches and begins to spout thick red streams, and he backs off, his minions dutifully following him. Zach’s scowl is black, but Spock’s face as he watches them go is impassive.

He turns his head to regard Jimmy, and something akin to dismay shows in his eyes. Jimmy ducks his head, embarrassed. Of all the people to catch him getting his butt kicked by the big boys, it had to be Spock. He can feel the flush of shame rising from his neck to his hairline.

“Are you all right?”

“’m fine.” He twists a toe into the dirt, then picks up his school bag. “You didn’t need to do that, you know.” He can hear that his tone is petulant, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“It is illogical to reject assistance when facing opponents with such a clear advantage.”

Spock grabs the strap of Jimmy’s bag and begins to tug him toward the boys’ bathroom. “They weren’t that much bigger.” Jimmy scowls, but he allows himself to be pulled into the tiled enclosure. The mirror shows the bruises beginning to darken up around one eye and on his fist. His shirt is torn and filthy.

Spock pulls a papertowel and wets it, the faucet loud and echo-ey in the empty room.

“But, hey, you know…” Jimmy squirms a little. It’s not Spock’s fault that he came along at exactly the wrong time. “Thanks.”

Spock’s dark eyes just blink at him, his face calm as he leans in and begins to wipe the blood from Jimmy’s split lip.

 

 

 

 _2239 spring_

 

“Begin with your feet apart, knees bent slightly. This is the most efficacious position from which to move in any direction quickly.” Sarek looks them over. “Good.”

He nods briefly. “Now, from here, curl your right hand into a loose fist, and rest it right at your waist. Yes, good. James, turn your hand over. Like that.”

Jimmy holds the position, drawing his spine up straight as he mimics Spock’s gracefully ramrod stance in front of him.

“With your left hand, push your arm out straight from the shoulder. You will want to focus the force of your body and mind through this hand.”

Sarek executes a smooth motion in demonstration, the movement of his robes smooth and draping.

“James, whereas for a Vulcan, the energy would be centered through the fingers, for a human it should be concentrated in the palm of your hand.”

He carefully positions Jimmy’s hand, twisting his wrist slightly. His skin is warm, and surprisingly smooth against Jimmy’s own slightly sticky palm. He tilts his head toward his son. “Spock has learned both methods, as his physical capabilities are closer to being those of a full Vulcan, but he demonstrates some more human aptitudes in the presentation of force. However, I have suggested to him that when sparring with you, he should alternate techniques in order to instruct you both in a wider range of defensive and offensive strategies.”

Jimmy nods, feeling his thighs begin to tremble with the effort of remaining motionless. He wishes Sam had agreed to join them.

 

When Sarek had heard about the incident at school, he had been quite livid, at least according to Amanda. Jimmy has a hard time imagining it; Sarek seems so totally unflappable, but, then, Amanda doesn’t lie, so it must have been true. Sarek had been off-planet at the time, but upon his return he had informedWinona of his intentions to instruct her sons in the rudiments of self-defense.

Winona had shrugged, and said the boys could do what they liked. Jimmy had heard her later whispering angrily to his dad’s photo in her bedroom about how now some other man had to do his job, and why the goddamn hell wasn’t he here, anyway. Sam had sneered and turned away.

Jimmy’s excited. He’d seen the way Spock had dispatched all five of the bigger boys, and could think of all kinds of ways learning that could help him out.

 

The day is hot, and by the end of the hour, when Sarek finally decides that Jimmy has performed the first motions satisfactorily, Jimmy is dripping with sweat. He flings himself on his back on the grass, breathing hard. Sarek continues flowing through forms, his spare figure describing arcs and angles and thrusts against the late-afternoon horizon. Spock wanders over to peer down at Jimmy where he lays catching his breath. He tilts his head to regard him intently.

“Are you all right?”

Jimmy grins, then rolls over suddenly, wrapping his body around Spock’s ankles and dropping the other boy to the ground with a _whoof_ of expressed air. Jimmy rolls himself swiftly so that he’s sitting astride Spock’s chest.

“I win!” His grin is face-splitting.

Spock reaches a hand to straighten his bangs, glaring up at Jimmy from his position on the ground. His eyes narrow, and before Jimmy can take another breath he is flat on his back under Spock, his wrists held firmly in one warm fingered hand. Spock’s weight on his chest is immovable, and the look in his eyes is more than a little bit triumphant as he peers down at Jimmy.

“I believe you will need to revise your statement.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and his grip tightens as Jimmy squirms futilely. “It appears that it is, in fact, _I_ who have won.”

 _  
[   
**"Sister, Do You Know My Name?"**   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1wqu-ooBh8)   
_

_Well we're back in school again  
and I don't really know anyone  
I really want to be your friend  
cause I don't really know anyone_

 _And the bus is pulling  
up to your house  
I wish you could be sitting here  
next to me  
i didn't see you at summer school  
but I saw you at the corner store  
and I don't want to break the rules  
cause I've broken them all before  
But every time I see you  
I wonder why  
I don't break a couple rules  
so that you'll notice me_

 _Sister do you know my name?  
I've heard it before but I want you to know_

 _I got a funny feeling  
that it's gonna work out  
cause now I see you sitting here next to me_

 _Well we're back in school again  
and I don't really know anyone  
I really want to be your friend  
cause I don't really know anyone_

 _And the bus is pulling  
up to your house  
I wish you could be sitting here  
next to me_

 _i didn't see you at summer school  
but I saw you at the corner store  
and I don't want to break the rules  
cause I've broken them all before_

 _But every time I see you  
I wonder why  
I don't break a couple rules  
so that you'll notice me_

 _Sister do you know my name?  
I've heard it before but I want you to know_

 _I got a funny feeling  
that it's gonna work out  
cause now I see you sitting here  
next to me _

 

 


	3. Though I Hear You Calling (I will not answer)

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Three**_  
 **Title** : Though I Hear You Calling (I will not answer)  
 **Rating** : PG (eventual NC-17, but not for a long while)  
 **Pairing** : k/s pre-slash  
 **Length** : ~4,500  
 **Genre** : kid!fic, AU  
 ****  
(approx. ages for this bit- 6/7 and 8/9)

 

 

 _2239 late summer_

The first time Jim sees his friend again is the Saturday before school starts up for the fall. He's hiding in the long grass at the end of the meadow, just like he has every day this summer, and ignoring his mother's calls to come in. He's chewing intently on a stem of wild onion and absently scratching a chigger when he sees that head of dark straight hair floating toward him through the rolling sea of prairie stems, like a buoy on a bay. It takes a second to register fully, but as soon as it does Jim is off like a shot, bare feet stampeding beneath him.

            “Spock!!” Jim flings himself full on at the older boy, trusting the Vulcan's superior strength to keep them upright. He wraps himself around Spock's shoulders gleefully, pressing himself tightly against his friend. Spock's arms grip around him instinctively, steadying both of them against the rush of momentum, but Jim can feel an instant later how the older boy pulls back, tensing and beginning to push some space between them. At first he clutches tighter, but a moment later he releases, and steps back in confusion.

“Spock! Why didn't you tell me you were back?” Jim looks down, shuffles a bare toe in the dirt. “I... missed you.” A flush runs up his sunburned neck, settling in the tops of his small round ears.

Spock is taller, and even paler than when he left. Jim can see the traces of green twisting beneath the skin of his neck, his temple, as he pulls himself infinitesimally more ramrod straight.

“Greetings, Jim. You appear to be in good health.” His tone is crisp and clear. “It would have been illogical to inform you of my very recent return, as I would no doubt encounter you on Monday at our mutual school.” His round dark eyes blink owlishly at Jim, his pointed eyebrows drawing infinitesimally closer to the bridge of his nose.

 “But…” Jimmy can feel his face fall. He takes a step back, and clutches his hands together behind his back. “But… didn’t you want to see me? You’ve been gone for _months_ …”

“It is more logical, upon returning from a prolonged absence, to apply oneself to such necessary tasks as unpacking, and setting one’s living space in order.” Spock’s voice is firm, steady. “Particularly since I knew that I would see you at our mutual school in two days, it would have been illogical to expend time upon seeking you out and engaging you in small talk, when I should instead be preparing for the imminent beginning of the school year.”

Jimmy sits down with a thump in the long grass. From this angle Spock looks impossibly tall and alien, looming over him like a pale statue. His brown eyes, so human in their expressions, are clear and unmoved. Jimmy examines his filthy shoelaces instead, winding them around his fingers.

“So how come you’re out here, then?” His voice is just this side of pouty, but he decides he doesn’t care. The knot in his laces is covered in burrs, which he picks off one by one.

“Mother suggested that it would be socially beneficial to attempt to make at least a cursory contact with you.” There is the slightest of frowns in Spock’s voice, the smallest hint of confusion. “However, I believe I shall now return to the house, and continue my structured review of last years subject matter.” He nods briefly, sharply. “I shall see you Monday morning.”

            He turns and walks away, black robes parting the prairie longstems in a slicing wave. Jimmy watches him go.

            He sits in the grass until it is dark, then picks himself up and goes home.

 

 

            Sunday morning dawns bright and hot, the thermometer outside the kitchen window cresting past 80 degrees by 8 am. Jimmy’s mom has already set herself up on the porch with a cooler of ice, some leftover tonic water, and a bottle of gin. The holovid is showing a marathon of her favorite show today, and she has declared her intention to be undisturbed today, _I **mean** it boys_. Sam has turned twelve and taken to sleeping in as long as possible, which Jimmy just finds dumb.

            Jimmy is bored.

            He’d gone to bed early last night, and had lain awake replaying the conversation with Spock over and over again. Spock couldn’t have really meant it. Could he? Did he not want to see Jimmy? Why wouldn’t he want to see Jimmy? Did he still like Jimmy? Did he do something wrong?

            No, he had finally decided, after tossing and turning for some time, it must just be because of being on Vulcan for so long. He’d been _Vulcanized_ , Jimmy thought, and giggled to himself. Surely he’d be fine in the morning, and everything would be back just like it was before Spock had left.

 

            This morning the whole thing seemed far away and silly; of course Spock would be glad to see him. They were best friends, weren’t they? He whistled through the gaps of his missing teeth as he fetched himself breakfast, managing to pour the last of the milk onto his cereal without spilling. He’d even gotten two purple spaceship marshmallows in his bowl today- surely it was a good sign.

            He finished eating, abandoning the comics holo to the rest of the mess on the table before changing his shirt, brushing his teeth, and heading out the door. It was early, but he was just sure Spock would be up and excited to see him.

            He did remember to knock politely at the back door before pushing it open, but it hardly mattered- Amanda swept him into a massive hug as soon as he got a toe over the doorframe, swinging him around as he squealed before depositing him back on the tile and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead. Her eyes danced as she stepped back and looked him over.

“Jimmy! You’re huge! Look at you!” She grinned, her teeth glinting white in the morning sun. Jimmy grinned back, bouncing on his toes with glee. She turns him around and points him toward the stairs, giving him a playful swat on the backside as he passes. “Go find Spock- he’s upstairs being impossible.” She laughs and turns back to the sink, her voice muted as Jimmy begins to climb.

 

            Spock looks up when he enters the room, and at the serious look on his face Jimmy can feel his smile shrink a notch or two.

“Hey Spock.” He waits cautiously in the doorway. “Whatcha doin?”

Spock regards him silently for a moment, before closing his book and facing him.

“I am currently engaged in running fuel conversion calculations between Andorrian and Federation standard specifications.” He blinks, and pushes his dark framed glasses up his nose. “Was there something about which you wished to see me?”

Jimmy swallows, unsure quite how to address this newly formal version of his friend.

“Umm… I thought maybe we could go play? Jump out of the hayloft? Swim in the pond?” He forces himself to stand up straight, and pulls out his extra big smile with the teeth that usually gets him what he wants.

Spock’s gaze is stern, and Jimmy quails inwardly.

“Jim. It has been brought to my attention that I am too old for such childish pursuits. It is more fitting that I apply myself to more appropriate scholastic and recreational activities at this time.”

Jimmy feels his stomach drop to his knees. He was right the first time- this stranger wants nothing to do with him. He nods once, not trusting his voice. The doorknob is cool under his hand as he turns to go.

“Jim. Wait…”

The look on Spock’s face is almost repentant when Jimmy turns to look.

“I have recently been given the gift of a game more appropriate to my age and abilities.” There is a hopeful light in Spock’s eyes, and Jimmy lets his hand fall from the knob.

“Perhaps, if you are willing…” Spock sounds almost unsure, but then he meets Jimmy’s eyes, and the corners of his mouth quirk just the tiniest bit. “Perhaps I could teach you to play chess?”

 

 

 

 

 _2239 fall_

 __

It’s nearly eight o’clock, and Jim is starting to get impatient. The spandex of his costume itches, and though it’s already more than worth it, if the reaction he got from Spock’s mom is any indication, he’s starting to get impatient. Who knew sequins could be so hot?         

“Spock! Hurry up! All the good candy is going to be gonnnneee!!”

He can hear a rustling at the top of the stairs, and begins to bounce in place. Spock refused to tell him what his costume was, but it’s Spock, so whatever it is, Jim is sure it’s flawlessly executed. Amanda is hovering, camera pad in hand. Spock hasn’t told her, either, Jim can tell. Jim looks down to scratch beneath the white glove on his hand, and when he looks up, Spock is coming down the stairs. Or, at least, he assumes that it must be Spock underneath the frock coat and white cottonball wig.

            The figure has reached the bottom of the stairs, and Jim can feel his mouth hanging open. Spock looks like he walked out of a painting, but Jim’s not clear on which one- something from his history textbook, he thinks, in one of the extra-boring sections. His eyes lock with Amanda’s, her expression displaying a similar level of befuddlement. She takes a breath, then chimes in brightly.

“Spock, honey, that’s an absolutely incredible costume, but, sweetie…” There is a slight pause, “who exactly are you supposed to be?”

            Spock straightens himself, wig twitching with the gesture. His lips are red, not their usual pistachio, and Jim thinks he must have powdered his face, too. Spock raises his hand, which Jim now can see is clutching some sort of antiquated metal measuring device. He raises an eyebrow, seemingly surprised that it is not immediately obvious.

“Gallileo, Mother.”

            Amanda makes a noise that is awfully close to a snort, covering her mouth quickly with her hand, her eyes seeking Jim’s in desperation. Jim can’t help himself, and begins to snicker. He feels bad immediately, because Spock is making that unhappy look he gets sometimes when he knows there’s a joke happening that he doesn’t get, or when he can see his mother and his best friend being human together without him.

“Is it not the purpose of this holiday to dress in costume in order to request sugary handouts from neighbors?”

            Amanda controls herself remarkably quickly, coming over to Spock and straightening a lapel of the brocade jacket.

“Yes, dear, that is the purpose.”

“Then why are you so amused?” Spock stares at them both balefully.

“Well, dear,” Amanda is moving behind Spock, arranging the wig over his shoulders, and Jim is sure it’s so Spock can’t see the look on her face, “generally, the idea is to dress up as something… scary, or exciting, or unusual. A zombie, or a robot, or princess, or something like that. But Gallileo” and here Jim can’t help himself, and begins to snicker again, “Gallileo is an excellent choice”.

            Spock sniffs, and rakes Jim with his eyes. He is mollified, but only slightly, and the continuing guffaws from his jumpsuit-clad friend are not improving the situation.  
“If you could clarify, Mother,” he raises an eyebrow, “in what situation dressing up as Gallileo is to be considered less appropriate than appearing in public costumed as Michael Jackson?”

 _2239 winter_

 

It’s well past midnight, and Jim can feel his eyelids drooping in spite of himself. He hauls himself determinedly upright in his chair, pulling the fleece blanket more closely around his shoulders, and consoling himself with the fact that Spock’s nose is nearly in his mug of hot chocolate on account of how far down his head has nodded. Jim’s mother bustles in and appraises the situation, deftly removing the mug from Spock’s hands and setting it on the table.

“Bed.” She points up the stairs.

            Jim gives the obligatory groan and eyeroll, but gives in easily, spilling off the chair and heading for the staircase, blanket trailing behind him. The feet of his pajamas shuffle quietly on the wood floors, and he can hear Spock’s light tread following behind.

            It is when they are tucked into his bed upstairs, quilts pulled up against the chill while frost stars pattern themselves across the window pane that Jim realizes he can’t sleep. He’s tired, his body lax and heavy between the sheets. Spock is asleep next to him, flat on his back with his arms crossed, just like always. The light from outside is bright; the moon is just past full, and it gleams off the two accumulated feet of snow like sun on water, casting a silvery pall over Spock’s still features. Jim flops over onto his stomach, burrowing into the pocket of heat his friend creates. In this light Spock’s face looks especially alien, and Jim finds himself caught in the gentle blankness of his forehead, the delicate upward flex of ink-black brows. Jim’s lip catches between his teeth, and he reaches out gingerly with one stubby finger, tip of the pad hovering millimeters above hybrid skin as he traces without touch the lines of his friend’s face.

            The light had been different, Jim recalls, earlier that evening, and the soft glow of the candles had gleamed in Spock’s eyes, illuminating the warm brown and making him appear more human than Jim had ever seen before. Spock had been rapt with attention- Jim’s own family was not at all devout, dragging into church only for the standard Christmas Eve and Easter services, but Spock had never been in a chuch at all. Jim should have figured he would be a sucker for it- after all, it was humans at their most ritualistic, executing exacting behaviors in a decisively logical fashion, all for a completely scientifically illogical end. Spock loved humanity in paradox, and the celebration of the Christmas Mass was perhaps the height of human inconsistency. Hope through death, birth through virginity, light shining from the darkness.

Spock had nearly smiled.

            When all the lights had been extinguished, the priest lit a small taper from the lone candle on the altar, the unextinguished light of Christ, and, leaning his taper to the altar girl’s wick, allowed the flame to leap from taper to taper, two lights from one, spreading through the crowd as flame passed from person to person to person. When Spock turned to him, his small candle flickering in his grasp, Jim had touched his own unlit wick to Spock’s flame, body resonating with all the unexpected joy radiating from Spock’s human eyes.

            Jim let his head fall to the pillow, hooking an arm over Spock’s chest, and shoving his nose into his shoulder. Spock shifted quietly, one hand drifting down to hold where Jim’s hand tucked under his side, murmured something in Vulcan. In a few hours they would get up. Jim would give Spock the brand new circuit soldering iron he’d saved up all his allowance for and wrapped in star-covered tissue paper. They would eat pancakes. But for now, he would sleep.

 

 

 

 _2240 early spring_

 

It is cold; Jim is puffing breath clouds into the morning air while Spock does his very best not to expose any more skin to the sharp wind than is absolutely necessary. If he could, Jim thinks, Spock would never leave the house from October to May, and if he had to go out, he would use those special thermal suits that let you work in the vacuum of space without turning into a popsicle. In this case, a spock-sicle, Jim thinks, and giggles. Actually, that would be kind of great, Jim muses as he steals a glance at Spock from the corner of his eye. Spock would totally look like a ninja in one of those suits.

            The bus comes, brakes squealing as the driver steers the bus into a calculated slide on the packed snow, spraying the fresh powder onto the piled drifts. Jim and Spock climb up the stairs and take their customary seats at the back of the bus on the bench above the heater. The one day that a new girl had unthinkingly taken Spock’s spot last November, Spock had glared so ferociously that she had immediately burst into tears, running to the front of the bus and refusing to look Spock in the eye for months.

            Spock huddles in the corner, cupping his hands between his knees to capture the warm air drifting up and venturing to poke his emerald nose out from beneath his scarf. Jim stares, fascinated by the color. If it wouldn’t hurt Spock, he’d cut him just to see if his blood was really as green as it seemed under the translucent surface of his skin.

 Jim shifts on the bench, adjusting his Rocketboy backpack so that it lays flat across his skinny legs. He smiles to himself, thinking of the precious cargo within- 27 mini cupcakes, individually iced and sprinkled in shades of pink and red. He knew they weren’t required to give a valentine present to everyone in their class, but he just couldn’t think of anyone he wouldn’t want to give a cupcake to, and really, even if he could, it seemed just a little too mean. He might not like all the kids in his class equally, but denying someone a cupcake is serious business.

He thinks too of the separate cupcake, in its own round Tupperware container- it is a work of art, he feels, dark chocolate surrounding a butterscotch pudding center, iced in green, with a red plastic heart decal stuck in the top. He had worried that the red and green together would make it too Christmasy, but had decided that the red was preferable to the pink, so oh well. He swung his feet, heels banging into the heater, and tried not to squirm with anticipation. This was gonna be so good.

 

            Jim tries to make it through till recess without squirming, honestly he does, and it kind of works, because he only gets in trouble twice for making too much noise. Then it’s ten minutes till break, and the teacher is telling them to put their books away, that’s it’s time ( _finally_ , Jim thinks) to pass out their valentines. Each student rummages in their desk, bringing out a shoebox decorated with hearts and cupids and their names, made in art class two weeks ago in between black construction paper profiles of Martin Luther King Jr and glitter hearts to stick in the school windows. Jim is proud of his- he was particularly careful with the glue this time, and didn’t stick anything to his box that he didn’t mean to. Now, as they get ready to go out to the playground, they are allowed to deposit their valentines in each others boxes, _slowly,_ says the teacher, _walk, don’t run_. In a flurry of pink glittered chaos the girls trade their valentines, shrieking in delight- the boys are more sedate, trading robot cards and perforated edged papers with prints of comic book characters. Occasionally a braver boy or a more intrepid girl will pull away from the gendered packs and shove a valentine into the box of a swing-set sweetheart before walking as swiftly away as possible.

Jim pulls his rectangle of plastic out, and distributes his little cupcakes one by one onto his classmates’ desks. Humming with anticipation, he waits for the rest of the class to exit, then removes the other package from his bag, checking it carefully for any damage incurred in transit. It seems to have held up, so he fluffs the paper surrounding it, and meanders over to place it on Spock’s desk. He sets it in the middle, where the sun through the window will catch the gold stars he’d stamped on the tissue paper the night before. He’s proud of this, feels for once like he’s hit upon a way to show his friend that Jim likes him best, better than anybody else, better than anybody else likes him. He hopes it will always be like this, like Rocketboy and Starkid, like Batman and Robin, like Jim and Spock.

            He admires his work one last time, and scurries off to find Spock for a round of tag.

 

            When they come in after recess, the surprise on Spock’s face is obvious, and a small group of kids gathers around to _ooh_ and _aah_ at the cupcake left for him. Jim fairly glows with pride, though he feels suddenly shy, and doesn’t admit to being the one who left it. He’s sure Spock knows, and that’s what’s important.

            His anticipation grows and grows as he waits for Spock to open it, to eat it, to turn to him and tell him that he’s the best friend ever for giving him this most magnificent of cupcakes. But Spock’s face is blank, and he carefully sets the package on the floor beside his desk, where he proceeds to ignore it for the rest of the day.

            Jimmy gets in trouble over and over again during the rest of the afternoon because he can’t sit still and leave Spock alone. Finally he’s sent to the principal’s office, where he sits morosely on a chair and bangs his feet against the wall until the end of the day. He can’t figure out what’s wrong- all he wanted was to make Spock happy, but the look on Spock’s face had been more aghast than appreciative. Who looks aghast at a cupcake?

            The bell shrieks shrilly over his head, and he grabs his pack before flinging himself into the mass of students careening down the hallway. The mob eases, and he makes it outside, scanning the crowd furiously for the tell-tale cap of black hair. He’s just in time to see Spock slam shut the passenger door of his mother’s car as she pulls out into traffic- Wednesdays, piano lessons. Jimmy groans aloud, clutching his jacket as he begins to shiver.

            He rides the bus home alone.

 

 

            He’s lying on his stomach on his bed when he hears the knock at his door. He pauses, then ignores it and continues to fly his model rocket over the landscape of his pillow.

“Houston, come in. Houston, calling Houston, we have a problem.”

The rocket nears his pillow, shaking with atmospheric forces. The knock sounds again, louder this time.

“Mayday, Houston, Mayday! We’re in a dive and we can’t pull out! Landing gear inoperable! Thrusters jammed! We’re going downaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!”

The rocket crashes into his pillow, bounces, rolls, and falls to rest on the floor. He regards it for a moment, catching his breath, then turns to see Spock standing in his doorway, watching him with his serious dark eyes.

“Go away.” Jim rolls onto his side, presenting his back to the door. He’s feeling sore about Spock, and he’s annoyed that he even cares. Sam would think he’s a bloody pansy for baking another boy a cupcake, and he’s starting to think he might agree. What does he care about Spock, anyway?

The bed shifts as Spock comes around and settles at his feet.

“I said go ‘way” Jim mumbles, hiding his face in his pillow.

There is a silence that stretches long and uncomfortable. Jim refuses to break it. If Spock is bothered, he can just leave.

“Jim…” Spock’s voice is soft. “I feel like I need to apologize.”

Jim pricks his ear, but keeps his face firmly planted in the cloth.

“After some discussion with my mother, I have come to realize that I have overreacted to your gesture.” He shifts on the foot of the bed. “I did not like being the center of public attention.”

Jim lay silent.

Spock sighs. “On Vulcan, it is not appropriate to single another person out because of emotional regard. It shows a lack of control, an inappropriate attachment. I understand that this is very nearly the opposite of the purpose of Valentine’s day…” he pauses for a moment, “…but I had not expected to be picked out for any attention. I was caught off guard, and responded badly. I am sorry for any upset I may have caused to you as a result of my actions.” He slides over until his hip is pressed against Jim’s ankles. Jim can feel the heat of his friend’s body against his skin. “Jim, I know what my mother says your intentions were. But it is illogical to accept speculation in place of actual truth.” His voice is quiet. “What was your intent?”

There a moment, then Jim sits up, leaning forward to sit side by side with Spock, tangling his hands together between his knees.

“I just… I just…” He thinks for a second. “I just wanted to show that you’re my friend.” He hangs his head. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just… like you best.” He shrugs helplessly. He can’t think of any other way to explain the way he feels about Spock, the way he gets excited to see him, the way he can’t wait to tell him anything that happens to him, the way he can’t help but smile any time he catches sight of Spock from across the room. “I just wanted to show we’re friends.”

Spock is frowning seriously. Jim can nearly hear the gears spinning in his head.

“Jim. We are friends.” He looks perplexed. “How could anyone think otherwise? We work together, we study together, we spend nearly all our time together. How does giving me a cupcake say anything about us that is not already clear?” He turns to look Jim in the eye, his forehead wrinkled.

“Jim. We are friends.”

Jim smiles and leans against him.

“Yeah…”

“Jim?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for the cupcake.”

  
 _  
[Though I Hear You Calling...](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WsjPY41jZr0)   
_

_Though I hear you calling, I will not answer  
Though I hear you calling, I will not answer_

 _And the sun may shine right through your tooth, dear  
And the wind may blow right through my ear_

 _Though I hear you calling, I will not answer  
Oh, I hear you calling, no I will not answer_

 _I broke your code  
And I broke your code_

 _Come on hit me  
Yeah, yeah  
I will not answer, yeah  
Though I hear you calling, no I will not answer_

 _The sun may shine out to your mouth, dear  
And the wind may blow right through my ear_

 _Though I hear you calling, oh, I will not answer  
Though I hear you calling, but I will not answer_

 _Calling and I broke your code  
I will not answer_

 _Though I hear you calling, I will not answer (echoing)  
Though I hear you calling, but I will not answer (echoing)  
And I will not answer and I broke your code  
Uhmmm Broke your code_   
_Yeah uhmmm  
Though I hear you calling... And the sun is shining  
I will not answer ...Right through your tooth, dear._


	4. You're Pretty Good Lookin' (for a girl)

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Four**_  
 **Title:** You're Pretty Good Lookin' (For a Girl)  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 5,497  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst, fluff  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:** language for this part, eventual violence and underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.  
 **Beta** : the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious [](http://13empress.livejournal.com/profile)[ **13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/) , who said "i bet jimmy eats in bed!".  
 ****  
(approx. ages for this bit- 8/9 and 10/11)

 

 

 _  
2240 late summer  
_

  
      He had been home from Vulcan for two full days now. He had finished unpacking. He had spent time with his mother. He had prepared all of his padds and references and schematics for the start of school, which still sat a full week away. He had sent comms to his friends on Vulcan, he had reorganized all of his clothing, getting rid of the items which no longer fit, and his mother had thrown him out of the kitchen for being "too helpful", whatever that meant.

  
Spock was bored.

  
Spock was bored, and he was mystified. Where was Jim? Every summer previous to this one, Spock had barely to set his suitcase down before Jim was winding his way around the door frame, round eyed and gap toothed and wanting to play.

  
Now two full days had passed, with no sign of Jim.

He didn't really know what Jim did during the months he spent on Vulcan, he realized. Somehow he just assumed Jim did... well, what he always did. Goofed around, built things, got in trouble. But he didn't actually know. Did he go on vacations? He'd never mentioned it if he had. Was he out of town? It seemed unlikely; Winona didn't seem to like strangers. Had something happened to him? No, surely his mother would have told him by now. And she would know, he had no doubt.

  
So where was he?

Spock turned away from his desk and pulled on his sneakers. Very well. If Jim was not prepared to come see him, he would go see Jim. That was perfectly reasonable. Perhaps Jim had simply misremembered the date of his return. That was probably all. And if that was so, then Jim would surely be disappointed that Spock had not come to tell him of his arrival.

  
He finished tying his shoes, and pulled his door shut behind him. It was only early in the afternoon. They had plenty of time left in the day.

  
He knocked on Jim's front door once, twice, three times. No answer. He rang the doorbell. Still no reply. How strange. Perhaps they _were_ gone?

He rang again.

Nothing.

It was as he had finally turned and begun to walk down the steps to the walk that he heard the door swing open behind him, and turned to confront his absent friend.

His mouth fell open instead.

There was a man. A large, strange, man, standing in the Kirk’s doorway.

Spock narrowed his eyes and approached, squaring his shoulders.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The man looked taken aback, then amused.

“Who am I? Who are you, little man? Little… what are you, anyway?”

Spock drew himself up as high as he could.

“I am Spock. I am here to see Jim Kirk.” He looked down his nose as much as he could while still having to look up to see the man’s face. “Do you know his whereabouts?”

The man regarded him for a moment longer, then began to snicker.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re just as stuck up as Sam said you were. Yeah, come on around. Jimmy’s out back.” He turned and climbed back up the steps, leaving the door open so Spock could enter.

Spock collected his wits, shook himself once, and reluctantly followed the man through the door.

 

“Who is he, anyway?”

“Who is who? Oh” Jim scratched his nose. “You mean Frank.” He shrugged. “I dunno, he’s Frank.”

They were sitting on the porch swing, waiting with jars at hand for the lightning bugs to make their nightly debut. Jim was rocking the swing back and forth with one bare toe.

“Yes, but… who is he?”

Jim frowned slightly.

“I dunno. He’s just… Frank. One of Mom’s friends, I guess. He’s been spending a lot of time around lately.” Jim shrugged, then his expression brightened. “He’s teaching me and Sam to play baseball! It’s fun! And he’s gonna take us camping for Labor Day weekend!”

He jostled the swing in his excitement, making it tilt and begin to jerk off-balance, swinging with a jumpy, one-sided hitch.

Spock felt slightly nauseous.

Clearly Winona was dating. And that could mean anything. What if she remarried? There was certainly no reason she couldn’t. And what would that mean? What if Frank didn’t like it here? What if he didn’t like Spock hanging around his new-found son? What if… they moved?

There was a sudden elbow in his side.

“Look, Spock, there! I saw one!”

Jim was off the swing in a flash, grabbing a jar and yanking on Spock’s arm.

“C’mon, hurry!”

Spock pulled back, and let Jim race ahead down the steps. He swung his legs to the porch boards, and collected his mason jar. The flashes of the small bio-luminescent insects were beginning to multiply, a daring dance which would lure both mates and predators.

 

He watched silently from the steps as Jim danced ahead of him into the twilight.

 

 

 

 _2040 fall_

 

            If he were human, Spock reflected, he would no doubt be frustrated by the amount of homework that he had to complete. Though it was certain, as his father has pointed out, to his ultimate benefit to be enrolled in the joint schooling program between Earth and Vulcan, there was also no question that it increased his workload by a factor of at least four when compared to his peers. The work he did to satisfy the Vulcan academic requirements was logically far advanced to that which he had to complete for his Earth curricula, but in spite of this, he was still required to complete the Earth assignments. Busy work, that's all it really was. He would hate it- if he were human.

            Being deeply lost in his attempts to calculate the approximate boundary of a specified compact manifold, he didn't notice the first two pebbles which clattered against the glass panes of his bedroom window. The third was perhaps a bit larger than a pebble, and may have in fact been a pinecone, based on the solid _thwap_ it made as it connected, and Spock raised his head from his text to face the clock. It was after ten; it must be Jim.

            Flipping his padd to power-saving mode, he walked around to the foot of the bed to open the window. The night was clear, and a volume of warm, damp, October air moved into the room, equalizing the barometric pressure. Jim stood visible on the ground below, thumbs hitched into the belt-loops of his grubby jeans, teeth glinting in the moonlight as he grinned like a loon.

 

“Hey! Hey, Spock, can I come up?”

 

Spock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Would saying 'no' prevent you from doing so?”

 

Jim grinned again, already reaching for the lowest branch of the sweet-gum tree that grows near the corner of the house. “Nah” he answered, swinging himself up and over.

 

            Spock climbed out his window, careful not to leave fingerprints on the glass. The damp air made him shiver lightly, but he reasserted his controls, reminding his body that cold was immaterial. He settled himself on the shingles, knees pulled up and arms wrapped around. This far out of town, the stars glowed brightly. Off to the left were the blinking lights of the Riverside Shipyard, rising high into the night air. To the right a distant small glow revealed the ocular pollution of the town itself. Ahead and above, Spock could make out the shape of the constellation Cygnus, the Swan. Further on sat Aquarius, with its M2 globular star cluster. Even now the faint drift of the Milky Way flowed ineffably across the celestial firmament, not quite lost in the 23rd century's shine.

            He felt, rather than saw, the weight of his friend come to rest beside him. Jim pressed into his side, cooler than Spock himself, but providing a good insulation for his own body heat, and an even better wind break. Spock could smell the night on him- the scent of dust, of corn, of sweat and food and heat, along with his own distinct smell, that sun/skin/iron/grass/sky smell that would let Spock pick him blindfolded out of a crowd of hundreds.

            Jim was restraining himself, Spock could tell, but he was still just short of vibrating with excitement, and he still had that foolish grin plastered across his mouth.

            Spock waited.

“She let me kiss her!” Jim fell back onto the shingles, kicking his bare feet in the air like an upended insect while shaking his fists in glee. Spock repressed a shiver as his side was freshly exposed to the night air.

“She really did, honest to god, on the lips and everything!” He sat up suddenly, shoving at a shingle with one bare toe. “Only the once, but still... oh, Spock, she's just... she's just the best!” Jim fell back again, spread eagled beneath the stars, his too-short jeans rucked up to expose skinny tanned ankles.

“I assume that you are referring to Chrissy Johnson?”

“Yeah...” Jim sounded blissful. “It's just... she's got those pigtails, and they curl at the end, you know? And she smells like flowers. And she likes _bugs_ , Spock!” Jim sighed gustily, a frown flickering at the corners of his mouth. “And she punches, hard, too!” He rubbed a hand against his upper arm gingerly. “But…” and the blissful expression was back “still....”

 

Spock watched the stars. He could see the blinking lights of a plane in the distance, to the west. Clouds were beginning to pile up in the edge of the horizon. Overhead a satellite glinted faintly as it followed its faithful orbit around the planet.

 

 

 _2241 winter_

 

Jim’s back was toward him as he shucked off layer after layer of sodden winter clothing, prattling along at an impressive clip as he deposited one boot and then another in a damp line from the back door toward the kitchen.

“So then Hikaru said to me, he said, ‘When I’m grown up, I’m gonna be a pilot, and I’m gonna fly space ships’, but I said to him, I said, ‘Sulu, you ninny, they don’t let kids like us do that stuff, that sort of thing’s for rich kids, like Gary Mitchell in Mrs. Steadman’s class’, or like you, Spock, you could probably be a pilot if you wanted, you’re all smart and your Dad’s pretty loaded…”

            Jim’s voice trailed off as he rounded the corner of the doorframe and disappeared from sight, and Spock clenched his teeth as his body shook in what felt more like a convulsion than a shiver. He had felt the cold, he had known it was cold, but the injustice of the bigger boys ruining their painstakingly built snow fort had so clearly called for retributive action that he had misjudged the length of time he could reasonably stay outside, or so it was becoming clear. He tucked his mittened hands into his armpits and let his breath wheeze through his teeth. He could feel the tingling in his cheeks that signaled the return of blood flow to frozen capillaries, and the accompanying burn of flesh returning to room temperature. A boot toe applied to the opposite heel, and then again, managed to relieve him of his heavy snow boots, though he was not sure that standing on the frigid linoleum in damp socks was much of an improvement. His teeth unclenched long enough to bite the end of one mitten and then the other, dropping them to the floor and examining his raw looking hands. He flexed his fingers gingerly, repressing the gasp of pain at the stabbing in his knuckles and fingertips. Undoing the zip of his coat was going to require some ingenuity, he could tell.

            “Spock? Did you hear me? I said Sulu’s applying for that summer camp down in…Spock?” Jim’s head poked back around the door frame, quickly followed by the rest of him as he stomped sock-footed over to where Spock stood fumbling ineffectively at the front of his anorak. Jim frowned, tongue between his teeth. “Spock?”

            Spock gave up with a huff, his teeth chattering, and held his hands up in front of him with a sense of resignation.

“C-cold. H-h-help?”

            Jim’s eyes widened in comprehension, and he stepped forward with alacrity, unzipping Spock’s damp jacket and shoving it off his shoulders, ignoring Spock’s flinch when he pulled the sleeves off over his hands. His snowpants were less soaked through, but Jim pulled the straps down and yanked, holding the bottom so Spock could step out. Standing back up, Jim grabbed Spock’s hands and began to chafe them between his own, looking up in surprise when Spock yelped in shock at the rough sensation.

“Too hard? Sorry, here.”

            Jim pushed closer until they were toe to toe, and shoved Spock’s hands under his arms, and Spock could not have helped the small blissful sigh at the sudden warmth even if T’Pau had been present. Jim quirked a grin at him, then yanked Spock’s hat off his head and promptly stuck both of his warm palms over Spock’s frozen ears, chuckling under his breath as Spock’s eyes closed in pleasure. Spock knew that the blush which flooded his cheeks was not entirely due to the sudden change in his core temperature, but Jim wouldn’t know that, and so he allowed himself to stand still, enjoying the radiating heat of his friend to the utmost.

            Jim let them stand there for just longer than a moment, blue eyes staring back into caramel, lopsided grin tipping a dimple into appearance.

“Amanda! Spock got too cold!”

            Shuffling, then his mother appeared, her eyebrows rising behind her bangs as she took in their stance. Spock resisted the urge to glare defensively- it certainly wasn’t like he had asked Jim to accost him in this way. He had simply wanted help with his coat.

“Spock! How many times have I told you, you just can’t stay out that long! It’s not good for you!” His mother recovered her expression quickly, and bustled forward. “Come on, upstairs. We’ll put you in a hot shower; you’ll be warm in no time.” She pushed Jim gently out of the way, and, putting a firm hand in the small of Spock’s back, propelled him up the stairs. “Jim? Do me a favor and throw some pajamas in the bathroom for him, will you? I’ve got to make sure dinner doesn’t burn.”

            Spock could hear Jim scrambling up the steps behind them as his mother pushed him into the bathroom, a piece of dark hair falling into her face as she turned on the tap as hot as it would go. Steam began to rise around them. “Honestly, Spock, for such a careful child you can be very careless sometimes” she admonished as she began to strip him. “Arms up.” He considered protesting for a millisecond, but the truth was that his hands hurt, and they both knew it. He raised his arms.

 

 

            It was not that he particularly minded Jim’s total lack of recognition of any sort of personal space, Spock thought to himself, it was just more that he had halfway expected that Jim would have begun to grow out of it by now.

            They were seated on the couch in what Amanda liked to call the “family room”, though Spock had never understood what made it any more or less of a “family” room than any other room in the house. Or, rather, Spock was seated, his legs crossed under him as he leaned into the corner of the couch. Jim was sprawled across the remaining two thirds of the sofa, one foot propped on the far arm and his head resting on Spock’s thigh as he gesticulated in the air above his chest. “So, then, Luke is all ‘yeaaahhh’, and Vader just keeps doing the breathing thing, you know, ‘khuuu-kheee, khuuuu-kheee’, and their light sabers are like ‘vvt! Vvvt vvt! And...”

            Spock wrapped his hands more tightly around his mug of tea, letting the steam warm the tip of his nose. He could feel the low hum of Jim’s thoughts even through the sehlat patterned fleece of his pajamas- technically, Jim knew he was a touch telepath, but either he’d never truly considered the implications, or else he was supremely indifferent to their existence. Spock didn’t mind- Jim’s broadcast invariably consisted of some version of _happy/warm/hungry/excited_ , with only occasional notes of _anxiety_. Though, now that Spock considered it, Jim did not touch him when he was around his family. Perhaps Jim was more aware of the implications than Spock had given him credit for.

            Right now his thoughts were a stream of _warm/friend/sleepy_ , and his voice was beginning to trail off. Spock drained his mug and gave Jim a push with his knee.

“Jim, it is well past our bedtime. We should retire.”

“But Spock, it’s Friday, we don’t have a bedtime.” Jim rubbed his eyes.

“The day of the week has no relevance to our bodies’ need for sleep. We are tired, and it is therefore logical to go to bed.”

            Spock extricated himself from the corner of the couch, folded the blanket he had wrapped himself in, and tugged on Jim’s shirtsleeve.

“Jim. Come.”

 

            By the time that Spock had finished his bedtime preparations Jim had woken back up, and was bouncing excitedly on Spock’s quilt. Spock allowed himself a moment of distress at the way in which his covers were being pulled askew, then walked over to the bed and crawled in. It was chilly in his room; the house was kept to a high ambient temperature when his father was home, but his mother preferred it cooler. He burrowed under the covers in satisfied relief, freezing when he heard the unmistakable sound of ripping cellophane. He frowned.

“Jim, must you persist in consuming snacks in bed? It is unsanitary, and will attract bugs.”

“But Spock, I’m hungry again.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Besides, it’s _January_ , there aren’t any bugs. I swear.”

            A pop as the seam of the bag gave, quickly followed by the rustling of fingers in the chips and the crunch of fried tuber between molars. Chips. Spock groaned inwardly- leave it to Jim to eat the messiest possible food in bed. Crumbs, there would be crumbs everywhere. He burrowed resolutely further under the covers, resolving to ignore the possibilities. It was no use. If there were crumbs, there would be grease, and given the way that Jim thrashed in his sleep, there was only a 2.3% chance that none of the chip debris would migrate over to Spock’s side of the bed. This meant that there was a minimum likelihood of 79.65% of Spock waking up in the morning with crumbs and grease in his hair. He sighed. Unacceptable.

“Jim”

“Yeah?”

“Have you finished?”

“Mm… almost. There’s a couple left. But nearly.”

“When you have finished, you will get out of bed, brush off your sleeping clothes, and use the hand vac to get any remaining crumbs off of the sheets.”

Spock could hear Jim’s eyes rolling.

“Ok, fine. Where is it?”

“Under your side of the bed.”

“You seriously keep a dustbuster under the bed just for me?” Jim snickered.

“You seriously insist on eating in bed every time you sleepover?”

Jim laughed. There was a sound of crumpling wrapper, then the rush of air as Jim climbed out of the bed and vigorously slapped up and down his front. Spock made a mental note to sweep his floor first thing in the morning. It would not do for the crumbs to be tracked around his room. The muted whir of the hand vacuum, then the bounce of the mattress and flap of the covers as Jim dove back in.

“Brrr. It’s chilly out.” Jim shoved over, digging an elbow into Spock’s side. His knees were bony, but fit behind Spock’s own as his nose pressed between Spock’s shoulder blades.

“Lights off.” Spock paused. He had only recently finished his work on his new program, and hadn’t yet shown Jim. “Display: Starscape  TKSK0829. Standard representational rotation, length: eight hours.”

            He could hear Jim’s quick draw of breath as the room around them exploded in points of light. Beside him, Jim rolled onto his back to gaze upward, his mouth open with amazement.

“Spock… it’s beautiful. This is a new one, isn’t it?”

            Spock remained silent, his eyes seeking and identifying each individual point of light.

“Spock, where is it?”

            He shifted minutely. Would Jim ever see this view? It was possible, he supposed. It was not really all that far, but perhaps unlikely. One did not make the trip as a pleasure cruise.

“This is the view from my ancestral home on Vulcan.”

“It’s amazing. It’s… so clear. And there are so many stars.”

“I have programmed the settings to reflect Vulcan’s thinner atmosphere at optimal atmospheric conditions. You might achieve a similar effect on Earth by viewing the stars from one of the poles, or deep in one of the larger deserts. However, the area of space where Vulcan is located is more densely populated, astronomically speaking, than where the Sol system resides.”

            Jim removed an arm from beneath the blankets, pointing a finger toward the rising glow of a sphere appearing from the edge of Spock’s desk.

“What’s that?”

“That is Vulcan’s sister planet, Vulcanis III.” Spock hesitates. “We call her T’Khut, or T’Rukh. It means ‘She Who Watches’, and her moon, see it, there” he points to a smaller dark sphere sliding past the larger golden orb, “she is called T’Rukhemai, ‘Eye of the Watcher’.” It felt strange to speak the Vulcan words to a human- his mother is fluent, of course, but he only addresses her in English. His father is the only person on this planet he has ever used his first language with, and he could feel a flare of pleasure in his chest as the ancient words slid from his tongue. He hesitated. “Humans call our sister Charis,  after the wife of Vulcan.” He could see Jim scowl in the dim light.

“I would call her what you call her.” Jim thought for a second. “So, Vulcan isn’t really Vulcan. That’s a human word. What is it really?”

Spock deliberated for a moment.

“Actually, many Vulcans use the Standard word ‘Vulcan’ to refer both to our planet and to our race- it was not just because of our planet’s resemblance to the ancient Earth myth of Vulcan that the first humans to encounter us applied that name.” He paused, turning the words over in his mind. “One of the names for our planet is Ti-Valka’ain, so there was an intriguing linguistic similarity which allowed the appellation to become popular.” He squirmed deeper into the blankets. “However, the most common name is T’Khasi.”

“T’Khasi”, Jim murmured sleepily from beside him. “I like it. Tell me more?” He wiggled his toes, hooking an ankle over one of Spock’s, shifting so that they lay hip bone to hip bone, elbow to elbow. Spock considered for a moment, studying the vari-colored display spread across the plaster canvas of his bedroom walls.

“There”, he said, turning his head toward the simulated T’Khut, “one and a half meters at 86 degrees up from T’Khut is the constellation we call A’T’Pel, the Sword. See how the three brighter stars form a line? That is the blade, with the four dimmer stars forming the hilt. It is drawn in anticipation, ready to defend T’Khasi from any foe.” He turned slightly, searching for the distinctive green cloud of the Plak Marn nebula.

“Mm. ‘s neat…” Jim mumbled from beside him. Spock checked- at least one eye was still open.

“The two lines of stars which form an ‘x’ above the green mass 37cm above the bookshelf are the constellation Sarakin, which we call the Crossed Daggers. They have seen battle, and are crossed in a gesture of defensive truce. They drip with shed blood, which pools into the nebula we call Plak Marn.”

“mmm…”

“Above our heads, Jim,” Spock’s voice had faded into a whisper, barely audible above the deepening breath of the form beside him, “you would see Stol, the chalice. Stol overflows, pouring out honor, loyalty, and brotherhood on to all warriors who seek it.” He let his eyes sink closed, relaxing into the after images of the stars on the back of his eyelids. “It is a great good omen, Jim, to view Stol with a brother.”

            Spock’s breath eased, facial muscles relaxing into the night. Undisturbed, the projected starry heavens wheeled in their timed dance across the restricted horizon.

 __

__

__

_2241 spring_

 

He had fallen asleep on the back porch of the Kirk house, soaking up the heat from the boards like a narcoleptic lizard. Jim had been out in the yard with Sam and Frank, playing a strange version of baseball that only required three players. Spock had declined to join them. He was perfectly content to sit on the porch with Winona and watch from the shade.

            At some point, it seemed, Spock had fallen asleep and Winona had gone back in, and when he woke, everyone was gone.

 

“I just… I think it will be better for the boys to have someone around.”

A low rustle came from the open window next to him.

“They do. They have you.”

“Yeah. And we all know how great that’s been working out for them.” Apparently Winona is the one who taught Jim the verbal eye-roll, Spock thought. Fascinating.  
“Winona. You’re a good mother. You just… have had a hard time.”

A glass thudded onto the table.

“Yeah. A hard time. A hard _fucking_ time.”

A sigh.

“You know… you don’t think about it, when you love someone, when you marry someone, what it will be like when they’re gone. When you’re in the middle of being in love, when you’re all caught up in it, in yourself, in each other… you just… you don’t think…of anything else at all.

“You don’t… think about what it will be like when you hear their last words, and you know that you’ll never, _ever_ , under any circumstances, hear that voice again. Not for real. You don’t realize what it will be like to never touch them again.”

 

There was a pause.  The silence was weighted in the room next to him.

A fly buzzed lazily around, landing an inch away from where Spock lay motionless.

 

“Winona, it’s been nearly ten years…”

“I know. I _know_. God, believe me, I know. I’ve counted every minute of it.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Oh, grow a spine, Amanda. I’m not offended. Just because you have a husband and I don’t, fuck, you can say it. We were married the same year, I think, did you know that? And just look at us now…”

“I’m not saying you should get over him, Winona. Jesus, _must_ you be so prickly all the time?” Spock could hear his mother’s chair creak. “Honestly, all I’m saying is, maybe it’s been long enough you could start to talk about it.”

 

It was becoming clearer and clearer that this was not a conversation that he was meant to overhear. However, there was no way for him to move from the porch without attracting attention. Was it better to announce his presence now, and leave? Or to wait and hope to escape notice?

 

“George had this spot, right here, right at his temple, where his hairline began. It was like the most… concentrated spot of scent, where it was warm, and the little hairs were soft, and I could just press my face there and breathe him in for hours. He thought it was so funny.”

“God, Winona…”

“I swear to _God_ , Amanda, what I felt for that man… it was primal. It went beyond all reason, all thought. He loved me too, I never doubted it, but me… I was obsessed. I couldn’t help it. I fell so hard for him, so fast… I can’t even…I just… we were so young. So goddamn young.  He was everything to me, _everything_. I didn’t care about anything else, all I wanted was him, just him, only him, for the rest of my life.

“And then there was Sam, and well, we hadn’t really planned on him, but… there he was, and we loved him.”

Spock could hear his mother sniff, and sigh.

“Amanda, the look on George’s face when he saw Sam… I was jealous. I can say it, now that he’s gone.  In that moment, I knew I could never compete with the love he had for his son. Never. I knew it, then, and I was right.

“And when… and when the Kelvin went down… that… that was for Jim, what he did. For his son. And I respect him for it, god, I _love_ him for it, how could I not? But… he … _fuck_ , he made a choice, Amanda. And that choice? It left me _alone_.”

“Winona…”

Spock lay frozen. He couldn’t have moved if his life had depended on it.

“When…when he died, when we got back, and we moved here… this was his house, did you know that? His family’s home. He was a baby here, a child. He was everywhere, but nowhere. I could see him around corners, hear his laugh in the back of my mind.

I really… I really thought I was losing it. Who knows, maybe I did for a while. Wouldn’t surprise me. Love does that, you know? Crazy, it makes you fucking _out_ of your _mind_ with it. Like some sick alien parasite. Only with no goddamn cure.

“When he died, when he damn well _killed_ himself, I… I couldn’t… I just couldn’t do it. I had a four year old, and a tiny infant. You just… you can’t even imagine. He was my whole world, and he was gone. _Gone_. In an instant, just… gone.”

Another pause; a chair shifted, and someone pulled a tissue from a box, took another drink.

“You know, I don’t even remember that first year. Jim’s going to hate me when he’s older; there are pictures of Sam everywhere, but I didn’t take a single photo of Jim until he was nearly two. I just couldn’t.

“I could barely get up in the morning. If I managed to bathe once a week, that was good. I could care for them- they were always fed, Jim always got changed. It wasn’t their fault. But I just couldn’t care about anything. Not really.

“I can remember lying in bed, listening to Jim cry, trying, trying so hard to get up the will power to just fucking _get myself out of bed_. It would take me an hour to put a goddamn _sock_ on. After a while, Sam would go in and play with him, take care of him. And eventually I would come. They were close when Jim was little, but I scared Sam, I know it. He’ll never forgive me for the way those first few years were.”

The sigh this time is deep, and heartfelt.

“Jimmy… Jimmy’s just never known any different.”

 

There was a rustling, the sound of a nose being blown. It was his mother, Spock thought. Winona didn’t sound like she was crying. She sounded… completely apathetic, her tone leeched of any emotion beyond resignation.

 

“It got better, eventually. Somewhat. I function now. Mostly. I bathe regularly; I clean my house from time to time. The bills get paid on time. I can make sure that homework gets done.

“And now there’s Frank. Who I don’t love, of course I don’t. How could I? But he’s nice enough, or seems to be. He’s got a job, he only drinks some, and he plays ball with my sons. Is that good enough? Maybe. Maybe for now.”

 

Spock could hear someone take a another drink, swallow, and put the glass down.

 

“It sounds like it’s what George would have wanted, too.”

 

The burst of anger was sudden, sharp, and took Spock entirely by surprise.

“ _Fuck_ him. _Fuck_ what he would have wanted. He’s not here, is he? He left me to make these decisions on my _own_. If he wanted to have some sort of goddamn _say_ in what happened, then _he should have goddamn well stuck around_.”

A chair is noisily thrust back, slamming against the wall.

“Winona, wait, I didn’t…”

Winona slams out the back door, golden hair floating around her shoulders as she stomps down the steps just like Spock has seen Jim do a thousand times.

“Winona, wait, I’m sorry…”

His mother stands in the doorway, sorrow and anger writ large across her face.

“Winona…”

Neither woman sees Spock, motionless and aching, thinking only of Jim.

  
 _  
[   
**You're Pretty Good Looking (for a girl)**   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PiQOb6cPvw)   
_

_Oh yeah you're pretty good looking for a girl  
but your back is so broken  
and this feeling's still gonna linger on  
until the year 2525 now_

 _yeah you're pretty good looking for a girl  
your eyes are wide open  
and your thoughts have been stolen by the boys  
who took you out and bought you everything you  
want now_

 _yeah you're pretty good looking  
oh yeah  
you're pretty good looking  
yes you're pretty good looking  
oh yeah  
for a girl_

 _lots of people in this world  
but I want to be your boy  
to me that thought is sounding so absurd  
and I don't wanna be your toy  
cause you're pretty good looking for a girl  
my future's wide open  
but this feeling's still gonna linger on  
until I know everything I need to know now_

 _yeah you're pretty good looking  
oh yeah  
you're pretty good looking  
yes you're pretty good looking  
oh yeah  
for a girl_

 


	5. Baby Brother

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Five**_  
 **Title:** Baby Brother  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 6,630  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst, fluff  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:** language for this part, eventual violence and underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.  
 **Beta** : the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious [](http://13empress.livejournal.com/profile)[ **13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/), object of my logical adoration.

 

 _2241 summer_

 

            Spock can remember the wedding as though it were yesterday. The seventh of July, an outdoor wedding, held in the Kirk's backyard. There was a canopy, but it did little to mitigate the heat and Spock was certain that he was the only person present who was anywhere near comfortable in the rising warmth as he watched Jim tug uselessly at the neck of his shirt. Where Jim looked sullen and uncomfortable, his older brother Sam looked downright mutinous. Sam had just turned fourteen in the last month, and seemed to have perfected a furious sneer as his default expression. The boys were both shoehorned into freshly pressed bluejeans and white shirts; matching skinny ties did nothing to transform them into anything approaching upstanding young men.

Spock watched Sam warily as he flicked a lighter from hand to hand- Sam was not a bad kid, necessarily, but Spock knew he was unhappy about the situation, and he wouldn't put it past him to make a scene.

            Winona looked... pleased, Spock decided, waiting in the shade in her light blue dress. It had been a surprisingly logical choice for a human, he'd thought when he heard about her decision to remarry. She had made no protests of love, but simply claimed that it would all be easier with another adult around, and Frank was the best of the available options. Spock had thought it a sound decision, and had been completely unprepared for the punch Jim had thrown when Spock had said so. Where Sam's objections were personally directed at Frank, Jim's were more abstract. Tears had pooled in his blue eyes as he had told Spock and Amanda the news.

“How could she? How could she? She _loved_ Dad, I know she did! How can she do this?”

            Amanda had bitten her lip and held out her arms, wrapping them tight around him as he dissolved into messy sobs. Spock knew that his face reflected his utter befuddlement, and had opened his mouth to speak, but closed it sharply at the glare his mother shot him from over the top of Jim's blond head. Sometimes, she had told him more than once, there was no place for logic. This must be one of those times, he thought, and left the room.

            Shaking his head, Spock pulled himself back to the moment. Frank was already at the front of the tent, standing at the end of the aisle that parted the thirty or so folding chairs set in wavering rows of five. He was red-faced, the tendrils of his light brown hair plastered to his forehead, and wrung a handkerchief back and forth in his fists, fidgeting slightly foot to foot. Spock considered him appraisingly. The options must not have been all that appealing, Spock thought to himself, if this was the best of them.

            The wedding went off without a hitch, in spite of Sam's ever increasing glowers from the front row. There had been plenty of food, and more importantly, more than enough cold beer and lemonade to limit the cases of heat-stroke to one well-rounded great aunt who had neglected her sun hat. The sun itself had finally sunk behind the stalks of corn to the west, and the company had begun to disperse. His mother had left after nine with a wave and a stern directive to keep an eye on Jim. Her face had softened as she said the other boy's name, and Spock had nodded solemnly. He knew she worried. He did too.

            It took a half hour before he located Jim down by the far edge of the cow pond. He had inadvertently come across Sam and his buddies drinking behind the barn, but had managed to avoid drawing their notice; Sam might be surly, but he wouldn't bother Spock. Concerning his friends, however, Spock was unsure, and he felt no particular desire to test the limits of their sociability while they were four beers into a six pack each.

            It was the distant sound of splashes that alerted him to Jim's presence at last- he pushed past the last of the reeds, thanking the universe for the 793rd time that earth parasites such as ticks and mosquitos did not find his blood edible. His shoes sucked loose with a damp squelch as he neared the dark form seated on the grassy bank.

Jim's arm pulled back and arced as he launched another rock, skipping it smoothly across the silvered film of the watery surface. ...nine... ten...eleven. Delicate ripples spread silently at its passing, shivering in the moonlight long after the stone itself had come to rest in the warm mud of the far shore.

            Spock settled himself gingerly on a log near the edge of the water. Shadows hid his friend’s face, and he made no move to acknowledge his visitor.

Spock waited.

He could identify at least three different kinds of frogs vocalizing in the dark; _Rama cataesbeiana_ , the American bullfrog, a full grown male, by his estimate, off to the left at about a meter. Hundreds of _Pseudacris crucifer_ , in full voice, much as their common name of “spring peepers” would suggest. He waited. Was it? Indeed- quite rare for this area, but unmistakably a _Hyla cinerea_. How, he wondered, did an American Green Tree Frog get so far from its usual habitats further south? Was it an abandoned pet? An escaped eagle's lunch?

Was it lonely?

            Jim seemed to have exhausted the supply of suitably flattened stones in his immediate vicinity, and was now simply engaged in rocking his body back and forth. Spock knew that humans found repetitive motion soothing, but it always made him vaguely anxious to observe it in action. It spoke to a restless energy, a tension not controlled. Spock wished absently for his mother- she would know what should be said, what action could be taken. He did not.

 

Silent in the darkness, Spock sat among the cattails.

 

 

 _2241 fall_

 

Spock was thoroughly enjoying himself. Truly, the exhibits at the Adler Planetarium were second to none, at least none inNorth America that he knew of. He had seen them before, but it had been a long time, and the recent upgrades to the holographic projectors made an enormous difference.

He could hear Jim’s breathing next to him as they stood, back to back, in the center of the darkened room. It was not a very big room, perhaps the size of a large bathroom, but when the simulator was turned on, you would never know. A simple flick of a switch, and the walls fell away into suspended darkness glittering with scatterings of solar systems, galaxies, stars.

“…the beauty of a living thing is not the atoms that go into it…” Spock muttered under his breath, turning slowly to view the large nebula seated midway along the x axis of the room.

“…but the way those atoms are put together.”

Spock smiled quietly in the darkness. Of course Jim would be able to finish that quote.

There was a loud snort from the darkness to his right.

“God, could you two be any nerdier? Honestly.”

Spock’s smile faded.

“Ugh, I can’t take it anymore. Not seeing the floor in here is making me sick. I’ll catch you two lovebirds when you’re done reciting nerd poetry to the stars.”

There was a flash of light, then a slam, as the door shut behind Sam.

“I _hate_ him!” Jim’s whisper was heated. “He ruins _everything_.”

Spock repressed a sigh. The stars were no longer peaceful, but simply distant. The spell was broken. They were in a small hot room, staring at carefully manipulated points of light.

“Ready?”

“Yeah…”

Jim’s tone was still sullen, but Spock resisted saying anything. Jim would come out of it shortly- his moods could be intense, but they rarely lasted long. Spock considered this to be a quantifiable benefit. He pulled the door open, blinking at the sharpness of the normal light level against his optic nerve.

He located his mother, leaning against a railing, and Sam, further down the wall, scowling into the distance like the teenager he was. He knew Sam had been furious that he’d been forced to come along with Spock’s family and his little brother while Winona and Frank took a belated honeymoon, as he considered himself far too old to need supervision. He’d campaigned heatedly to be left at home.

 

Spock wished he’d been left at home too.

 

His mother caught his eye and smiled brightly, clapping her hands together.

“All right, boys. I have to go meet Sarek at the embassy for an hour or so, so I want you three to go ahead and get some lunch down in the food court.” She caught Spock’s eye. “Now, it might take longer than an hour because of traffic, so if you get bored, go ahead to the aquarium. But when I comm you, I want to know right where you are, ok?”

Spock nodded.

“Have your credit chit?”

He did not roll his eyes.

“Yes, mother.”

“Good boy.” She smiled at all of them again. “Ok, be good, and I’ll see you in a while.”

She turned and walked off, hailing a hover-taxi at the curb.

“Damn, Spock, but your mom’s hot. What the hell’s she doing with an alien, anyway?” Sam whistled under his breath.

“Sam…” Jim’s whisper was strained.

“Clearly she based her selection on qualifications of merit, rather than xenophobia.” Spock did not glare at Sam. “Considering the specimens of human male I have been acquainted with, I cannot fault her decision in any way.”

Jim looked appalled, but Sam just laughed and slapped him on the back.

“Touché, weirdo, touché.” His grin showed all of his teeth. “You do realize you just insulted little Jimmy here too, right?”

Spock paused. He had not. He turned apologetically to Jim, who was ignoring them both, and Sam laughed again.

“C’mon, nerdlings. Let’s get some grub.”

 

 

The food court was bustling, but Spock was able to locate a vegetarian meal and a table with relative ease. He could see Sam in another line, shadowed by Jim, who was apparently arguing with him. Nothing new there, Spock thought. Occasionally he had wished for a sibling, but watching Jim and Sam together made him very pleased indeed that he was an only child.

Sam made his way over, balancing a tray heaped with pizza, chips, and an Andorian bubble-spice tea, slouching into his seat and starting to inhale a large slice dripping with melted cheese. Jim settled in next to him, empty handed, and stared at the table.

Spock frowned.

“Jim, you don’t have any lunch.”

He looked up quickly, his blue eyes wide and innocent.

“I’m… not hungry.” He glanced away again.

Sam grinned, making a show of licking tomato sauce off his fingers-there was clearly something going on here, but Spock didn’t want to push it. It undoubtedly had to do with whatever it had been that they were arguing over earlier, and he had no desire to re-open a debate.

“What portion of the exhibit did you find most engaging, Jim?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Spock shoveled another forkful of broccoli and rice into his mouth, watching as Jim unconsciously licked his lips.

“The holographic projection room.” His expression got dreamy. “I can’t wait to be older, so I can go into space.”

“Indeed.” Spock chewed contentedly. “It is only another eight years until you are eligible for the Starfleet advanced training exams.”

Sam groaned and elbowed Jim.

“Jimmy, really? You’re really just going to do everything this kid” he gestured dismissively at Spock “says, for the next eight years?” He leaned in, a string of cheese hanging from the side of his mouth. “Don’t you have your own opinions? You don’t need to do what he says.” He poked a finger into Jim’s ribs, leaving a greasy spot. “Be your own man. Do what _you_ want to do.” He shoved the last of his pizza in his mouth, gave a cursory wipe to his mouth and hands with a napkin, then shoved his tray and utensils into the slot in the middle of the table.

“I’m off. See you losers later.”

He stood up, his chair dragging a noisy scrape across the tile.

“Oh, and Jimmy? Try not to eat your shirt; we don’t have any more at home.”

He was gone, sauntering off without a backward glance.

 

A flush rose in Jim’s cheeks, and he directed a pointed stare at the table, the pink becoming even more pronounced as the distinct rumble of his stomach made itself heard over the bustle of the food court.

Spock pushed the rest of his meal over to Jim without a word, receiving in return a look of equal parts anger and gratitude. He picked up the fork and dug in, eating quickly and neatly, rice and broccoli and peas disappearing at a surprising speed.

“Your mother forgot to give you money?”

Jim winces.

“Yeah.”

“And Sam…?”

Jim sunk even lower in his chair.

“He stole her access code and transferred money to his chit before they left. Said I shoulda thought of it too.”

Spock shrugged.

“There is nothing wrong with not thinking to be dishonest.” He leaned back in his chair, shifting on the hard plastic. “Hurry up. Then we can go see the sharks before your brother comes back.”

Jim’s face brightened, and he nodded enthusiastically as he dug his spork into the food again.

 

 

 _2242 winter_

 __

            It was rare anymore that Spock stayed over at Jim’s house- Jim had been spending less and less time at home and more and more over at the houses of his friends, Spock in particular. But since his father was on Vulcan for the month of January, and since his mother had wished to accompany him, it had been agreed that Spock could stay at Jim’s house for the two weeks of both his parent’s absence. Spock had looked forward to it- when they were younger, they had slept at each other’s houses as often as their own, but sometime in the last year that had changed. Jim, conversely, had seemed surprised by the announcement, and had even argued against it, much to Spock’s chagrin. When Spock had confronted him about his behavior, Jim had shrugged and bit his lip, then changed the subject.

            Now, Spock understood.

            It had only been fifteen minutes into dinner when the arguing had started- Frank had asked Sam if he had performed his chores in a timely manner, and Sam had replied that he had not, nor was he likely to.Winona had questioned Sam as to why he did not display an appropriate level of respect to his step-father, and the scene had devolved from there. Spock had found himself equal parts horrified at such an undignified display, and fascinated at viewing a side of human behavior he had yet to experience. Jim was clearly mortified, shoveling his food into his mouth as fast as possible before grabbing Spock’s plate and his sleeve to pull him out of the room. Spock had resisted initially, thinking it the least he could do to finish his meal politely, but when Sam had flung his glass to shatter against the dining room wall, Spock had followed Jim upstairs, judging it the better part of valor to remove himself from the scene.

            The fight continued downstairs unabated, shouts rattling through the clapboards of the farmhouse which did nothing to muffle the words of the participants.

 _“You will not live in my house and act like this!”_

 _“It’s not your house, you bastard, it’s mom’s house!”_

 _“Please, Sam, just let it go…”_

 _“Who the hell do you think pays for things around here, anyway? It sure as hell ain’t you, kid!”_

 _“What, and you think I care? I can take care of myself, you arrogant prick!”_

 _“Sam!”_

 _“You think that just because you’re fucking my mother, you can tell me what to do? Well, fuck you, man, I don’t have to take this shit. You’re not my father, and you I’m not your **fucking** son!”_

 _“Don’t you talk to me that way, you little son of a bitch! Get your ass back here, I’m not done with you!”_

            The sounds of a chair hitting the floor, a door slamming with a bang, and then a second door, echoed through the house. Sam and Frank must both have left, either to continue their fight elsewhere or to seek absolution in solitude. Silence reigned briefly, broken after a minute by the muffled but distinctive sounds ofWinona sobbing at the kitchen table.

Spock was appalled.

            He risked a glance at Jim from where he sat at Jim’s desk. Jim was seated cross-legged on his bed, curled forward over his math book, pencil clutched in a death grip in his fist as he scowled ferociously at his homework. His face was red, and he rubbed furiously at his nose, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Spock’s gaze.

“Jim, I…”

“Fuck, Spock, just… just leave it. Leave it alone.”

Spock could feel his eyebrows climb in incredulity at his friend as Jim raised a fist to scrub against his eyes, his pencil lead snapping as he pressed it against the paper. He growled under his breath, wound tight and aching, and threw the pencil against the wall where it clattered harmlessly to the floor. He fell forward across his legs, face pressed to the open book, and lay there unmoving. Spock could see his back rising and falling rhythmically, slow breaths seeking control.

“Jim…” Spock could see him flinch, even from across the room “Perhaps it is time for us to retire for the evening.” Jim’s back rose once, a deep breath, and then he nodded.

Spock changed into his pajamas, back to his friend, and fastidiously folded his clothes. He placed them on the desk chair, retrieved his toothbrush and paste, and retired to the bathroom at the top of the stairs. If the darkness under Sam’s door down the hall was any indication, he had not yet returned from wherever it was that he had retreated to. DownstairsWinona had seemingly ceased to cry, and Spock could hear her lowered voice rising in counterpoint to Frank’s deeper mumble. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, used the toilet, and padded barefoot back into Jim’s room.

            Jim was still crumpled face down over his book, and listening closely, Spock could hear that his breathing had deepened into a gentle snore. He recalled that his friend had been looking less and less rested in the previous couple of months, and given the scene he had witnessed that evening, he could certainly understand why. He felt his hands clench at his sides, an ineffective emotional tell of the turmoil he could feel churning in his gut. He found himself utterly at a loss to explain Sam’s behavior, in spite of the obvious excuses of hormones and frustrations, but even more than Sam’s actions, he could not justify, or even comprehend, Frank’s attacks against the boy. Perhaps it was biological, he mused, a new male in the pack attempting to dominate the weaker, but previously high status, male.

Most inexplicable to him, however, was Winona’s failure to defend her son, and to allow her younger son to witness the scene. A scene which, as Spock now recognized, must have become commonplace in the Kirk household. He tried to imagine his own mother permitting him to observe such an altercation, and failed. Children were meant to be protected by their parents, given love and nurturance, and shielded from the more distressing interactions of adults. That Jim was such a casual bystander to an emotional outburst that so clearly wounded him made Spock’s chest clench as he looked at the tousled head in front of him.

            Exerting his controls, Spock calmed himself. Jim had already shown himself more than proficient at discerning Spock’s mood and mental state, and it would not help him if he was aware that Spock was equally unsettled by the tenor of the night.

“Jim.” There was a hitch in the breathing. “Jim, you must prepare yourself for sleep.”

            Jim slowly uncurled, arms stretching overheard as he yawned voluminously. He scrubbed at his eyes with both fists, and stumbled off the bed, staggering up against Spock as he fumbled to the door. Spock hands gripped Jim’s arms in reflex, hauling him upright before releasing him toward the door. Jim was sleep-warm and golden, and his touch hummed through Spock’s hands even after he had tottered off to perform his nightly ablutions.

            Spock turned off the light and crawled under the covers of Jim’s double bed. He straightened his legs, crossed his arms across his chest, and began to regulate his breathing down into the optimal levels to enter into the alpha wave stage of early sleep. It was not until he felt the warmth and weight of his friend settle onto the mattress beside him that he fully relaxed his shields and succumbed to sleep.

 

 

            Spock awoke suddenly and fully and froze, waiting for whatever had woken him to show itself. The glow of the nightlight pervaded the room, drenching the walls in a deceptively gentle tinge, and he held his breath instinctively, senses at full alert. The chronometer shone a green 0302 hours. It was just as he was beginning to release his held breath that Jim moaned again, a broken sound which shuddered through the empty room. Spock twitched. He turned his gaze to the lump of covers next to him, only to furrow his brow in dismay. Jim had thrown off the covers and twisted up on his side, his back facing Spock. One arm was clutched into the pillow beneath his head, the other thrown up over his face, as though to ward off an unseen enemy. He moaned again, louder and more urgently.

            A nightmare. Spock had never seen one, himself. He dreamed very rarely, and when he did, it was of insubstantial wisps, faint paths of imagining which did not linger in the light of day. This, this thing which had Jim’s fist clenching and releasing, his eyes squinched shut in fear, this was something all together different.

            Clearly Jim needed to wake up, but he seemed equally clearly unable to achieve this end on his own. Assistance would be necessary. Spock could remember his mother telling tales of a sister who used to punch in her sleep if awoken improperly, and so it was with extreme caution that he reached his arm over to touch his bedmate as he called his name.

“Jim?” The reaction was instantaneous to the touch of Spock’s hand on his skin- Jim flung out his arm, catching Spock sharply across the jaw, and was out of bed and flattened against the wall in a heartbeat. Spock could see the glint of the whites of his eyes, but based on the waves of fear and hatred Jim was broadcasting, Spock did not believe him to be fully awake.

“Jim?” he whispered softly, putting as much calm into his tone as possible, “Jim, I am going to approach you. Please stay still.”

            Jim whimpered. Spock levered himself out of the bed and walked slowly and carefully over to his friend, hands in front of him, speaking as softly as he could. “Jim, it was only a dream. Whatever you were seeing was not real. You are in your bedroom, in your house, and I am your friend. There is no cause for anxiety here.” He consoled himself with the knowledge that this was at least superficially true, in terms of physical endangerment at the least. “Jim, I’m going to touch you now- please attempt to relax.”

            The second that Spock’s fingers touched Jim’s flesh, Jim flung himself upon his friend, clutching him desperately around the neck. Flashes of the dream poured through their connection, fragments of scenery and an overwhelming sense of sheer terror, before Spock slammed his shields up. Jim was gasping gently into his neck, and Spock found his hands wandering soothingly over his friend’s back in a gesture he recognized distantly as his mother’s. Jim was awake now, but only just, and Spock walked him gently back to the bed in order to begin the process of reassurance and relaxation.

            It was then that he realized the bed was wet.

            Spock sighed inwardly, but there was nothing to be done. He settled Jim on the floor against the wall, peeling his clutching fingers off his neck one by one, and shoving Jim’s pillow into his arms. He stripped the bed methodically, wadding the sheets into a bundle and setting the covers aside. If he were at his house, he would have put them to soak, but it was far too late for it to be excusable for him to be wandering around a strange house attempting to begin a load of laundry. He settled for shoving the pile into the corner of Jim’s closet and vowing to himself that he would deal with it appropriately in the morning. He indulged in a rare exhibition of his superior strength in order to flip the mattress, and covered it with a sleeping bag he found on the closet shelf. The blankets and pillows, thankfully, were fine, and when he was finished, he turned back to his friend.

            Jim was seated where he had left him, knees drawn up, and head in his hands. His face, Spock could see, where not covered by his fingers, was a particularly deep shade of red. Spock knelt in front of him, and resignedly peeled his fingers back one by one.

“Jim. It is late, and we are both tired. Come back to bed.”

            Jim refused to meet his eyes, yanking his hands back to tuck around his knees.

“You take the bed, Spock. I’ll just sleep on the floor.”

            Spock frowned. “Jim, it is illogical to be embarrassed by an involuntary bodily action. I am not upset, and I do not comprehend why you are. You will not sleep on the floor. Do not make me carry you- I will do it, and you will not like it.”

            Jim glared at him, face still red, but pulled himself off the floor and stalked to the dresser, where he grabbed a pair of briefs and a fresh pair of pajama bottoms before stomping off to the bathroom. Spock climbed into bed for the second time that night, straightening his legs and crossing his arms, and waited.

            When Jim returned, he climbed into bed and immediately curled into a ball at the far side of the bed, as far from Spock as it was possible for him to be while still maintaining residence on the same mattress. Spock could feel the mattress trembling, whether from tension or tears he could not say.

“Jim…” He paused. “Please correct me if I am wrong in assuming that the occurrence of nightmares has become a common thing for you.” The silence in the room was resounding. Spock nodded to himself. “I… I have something that, with your permission, might be able to help.”

            He waited. After a moment, the form next to him rolled over, and he found himself staring into huge blue eyes.

“Ok.” The word was a whisper, but sure.

“You have no questions?”

“No, Spock.” Jim sighed, blinking his eyes closed, then open again. “I trust you.”

            It was interesting to notice, as Spock did, that his hand was shaking just slightly as he stretched his fingertips toward his bedmate’s face. He could feel the rush of thoughts, of electricity beneath the heat of Jim’s skin, pricks of lightning as he slid his fingers onto the meld points. “My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts”, the words he had heard from his father time and time again, and then all thoughts of his family disappeared as he was slammed with the essence of Jim.

            _Shame/rage/embarrassment/anger/mortification/self-loathing/shame/hurt/ **Spock** /fear/affection/trust/respect/shame/loyalty/devotion/need_. Jim’s thoughts were a flood, circling and spinning, chasing their own tails through the landscape of his mind. _No wonder,_ Spock thought very privately to himself, _that he couldn’t sleep_. He began to extricate himself from the turbulent flow, surprised at the strength with which Jim’s mind clutched at his instinctively. He broadcast soothing affection, a calm reassurance undergirded with a sense of warmth and security. Reaching deeper, he sent the suggestion that these dreams were unnecessary, and, pushing the thoughts before him into the depths of Jim’s unconsciousness, that in fact Jim did not need to have any more nightmares. He could feel from a distance that his friend had curled around him, their bodies mirroring their mental connection. Reluctantly he withdrew himself, pushing back the winding tendrils of Jim’s mind that sought to keep him. _Sleep_ , he pushed into the space behind him _, sleep, I am with you_.

            He pulled his fingers from the meld points, flexing his digits and marveling at the delicate tingle that remained on the pads of his fingers. He was exhausted. Jim was twisted around him, a leg hooked over his calf, arms wrapped tight around his ribcage, and his head tucked decisively beneath Spock’s chin.

            It was illogical to move him, Spock thought drowsily, and would no doubt upset him. It was the obviously right thing to do to pull him closer, Spock mused, closing his grip as he drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 _2242 late spring_

 

It was nearly noon on a Sunday when Spock walked up the broken concrete sidewalk to the Kirk house. Jim had told him the day before that they had plans to do a Father’s Day brunch for Frank, but it should be done by eleven or so, and then they could go out to the barn and work on their Constellation class model some more, if he wanted.

Spock had finished all his homework the day before, but had studiously waited until forty five minutes past the time which Jim had stipulated before letting the screen door of his house snap shut behind him as he headed out.

Now approaching the house, he could hear raised voices, and as he paused, hesitating, at the edge of the yard, the front door slammed open, then shut, disgorging a red-faced Sam.

He was clutching his sneakers, and flung himself onto the front steps to shove them roughly on to his feet, his entire body radiating anger and stress. He raised his head and caught sight of Spock, a range of thoughts seeming to flicker across his face before he raised his arm and beckoned to him.

“Hey, nerdling, get your skinny ass over here.”

Spock wanted to resist, but since he was intending to go to the house anyway, it made little sense to avoid it. He walked carefully over.

“Look.” Sam bent, yanking the laces of a worn-out sneaker tight before beginning to tie it, with short, jerky motions. “Look. You’re Jimmy’s best friend. I think you’re a geek of unprecedented proportions”, he paused to begin on the other shoe, “and you’ve got a superiority complex the size of a barn. And you’ve got really ridiculous ears. But” he paused, looked Spock dead in the eye. “But… you care about Jimmy. I can see it. Mom can see it. A fucking blind man could see it.” He bent to his shoe again. “I… I might not be around here too much longer. I turned fifteen two weeks ago, and I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

He finished with his laces and stood, brushing the dust off his jean shorts. “I don’t trust Frank. He hasn’t done anything yet, not that I know of, but I don’t like him. I don’t like him at all, and he doesn’t like me. And he doesn’t like Jimmy, not really, but Jimmy…” He rubbed at his hair, stared off at the horizon where it smudged with heat in the distance. “Jimmy’s gonna keep trying till it bites him in the ass. That’s just how he is.” He turned to face Spock again, face as serious as his fifteen years could make it. “I just need to know that you’ll keep an eye on him.”

Spock nodded once, his face solemn.

“Good man.” Sam slapped him on the shoulder, making him stagger sideways. Sam was already off, jogging down the drive, his lanky stride eating up the distance with tiny puffs of dust trailing his feet.

 

He could smell the scent of burning eggs before he entered the dining room, but the sight that greeted him was not what he expected. The remains of breakfast were strewn across the large oak table, some of it half-eaten on plates, some of it on the floor in a pile with broken crockery. A vase of flowers was lying on its side, the pool of spilled water dripping with a steady rhythm onto the floor.

He circled the room on wary feet, heading for the far corner where he could see a pair of familiar sneakers sticking out past the edge of the table. The sounds of Winona and Frank arguing echoed down from the upstairs, coupled with an occasional door slam.

“…Jim?”

Jim sat up so abruptly he whacked the top of his head against the underside of the table, falling back down and clutching his skull.

“ _Ow_ , goddamit, Spock!”

Folding his hands behind his back, Spock approached, his eyes studying his friend with trepidation.

“Jim? Are you all right? What are you doing?”

The look on Jim’s face was beyond furious. He looked absolutely incandescent with rage, and the screwdriver he grasped in his hand shook slightly with his grip.

Spock squashed the leap of fear in his chest.

“Jim? What are you doing?”

His blue eyes glowed in the dim light, his mouth set in an unwavering line.

“I. Am. Taking. Apart.” He gasped for breath. “The. God. Damn. Furnace.”

Giving it a swift once-over, Spock could see now the source of the stench. A plate of eggs had been flipped into the two-foot by three-foot heating grate in the corner of the room. The eggs themselves, or the remains of the eggs, were resting on the heating element, smoking and turning black.

Jim had already managed to remove five of the six long screws holding the large metal frame in place, which Spock thought was rather impressive, considering the evident tremble in his hand.

However. The eggs were not a fire hazard. Jim, meanwhile, was beginning to move from red-faced to purple-faced as the wheeze in his gasps intensified.

Spock pried the screwdriver out of his hand and hauled him to his feet, tucking him firmly under his arm and steering him out the backdoor and down onto the grass.

It was a matter of yards to the shade of the trees along the creek, where Spock pushed Jim down onto the grass, forcing his head between his knees.

“Breathe. Slowly”, he commanded, allowing none of his dread to color his tone.

Jim wheezed for another minute, his hands clutching and releasing at the air, before raising his face to Spock’s, his eyes wide with fear.

“Spock. Help. Can’t…” his fingers gripped at Spock’s arms, tight with nerves.

Spock bit his lip, then raised his fingers to Jim’s heated face, aligning his digits with the meld points. It was the only solution he could see.

The tingle of tiny lightning strikes to a thousand nerve ends, and he was in, pushing his way into Jim’s mind and issuing a firm order for calm. He found the centers for bioresponse, turning down the adrenaline, upping oxygen reception and lowering blood pressure, just as he would in his own mind. All of a sudden he could feel Jim’s body relax against him as he returned Jim’s system to normal, and he breathed a mental sigh of relief.

He allowed himself to relax into the meld, looking around for Jim, reaching out feelers and drawing his friend’s consciousness to him.

There; Jim’s mental self stood before him, a look of confusion and delight stamped on his mobile features.

“Spock? Is that you? Where are we?” He stared around himself, wrapping his arms around his thin frame and gazing wonderingly at the deep purple sky which arched unbroken above them. The stars were much closer here, and there was a distinctive coppery flavor to the dust in the air.

Spock closed his eyes and inhaled.

“We are in the meld.”

“Wow…”

Spock smiled. Succinct, as usual, that was Jim.

“Jim…” he stretched out a hand to his friend. “It is important that you learn to control your physical responses. You cannot allow your biology to handicap you. Here…”

He took Jim’s hand in his own, stretching it out to the horizon, steadfastly ignoring the small blue sparks that leaped where their skin connected. “Feel- these threads are the controls to your bio-physio responses. Open your mind and feel your body. Can you sense yourself?”

Jim had closed his eyes, his brow wrinkling in concentration.

“Yes…”

“Ok. Now- adjust your breathing.” The tip of Jim’s tongue stuck out of his mouth, but his mind moved instinctively to follow the thread of Spock’s. “Good. Now your pulse.” Spock moved Jim’s hand. “Here.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Good. Now, without me, find your blood pressure, blood oxygenation, and adrenaline levels.”

“There?”

“Yes, very good. Now, adjust them slightly, and feel your body’s response.”

“Oh… OH. Huh.”  
“Excellent. Now, release them.”

“Ahh… ok. There. Is that right?”

Spock smiled again. “Yes. You did very well.” He released Jim’s hand, repressing the wave of disappointment at the loss of contact. “It will be harder for you to learn to reach this space without my assistance, but I am sure you are capable of it.” He frowned slightly. “We will need to teach you to meditate properly…”

Jim nodded, then yawned, his jaw cracking audibly.

Spock nodded. “The adrenalin is leaving your system. You will be sleepy. We should end the meld now.”

The look Jim gave him was reluctant. “But it’s so nice here…” His eyes lit from behind with a hint of excitement. “Can we do this again?”

Spock looked away.

“Melding is not something to be used lightly or frequently, Jim. It is very private and very personal.” He stepped back. “Come. It’s time.”

He pulled his fingers away from the meld points, noticing absently that he again had to pull off tendrils of Jim’s psyche which had clung, vinelike, to his mind. He didn’t know what that could mean; he filed it away to ask his father later.

He shook his head, focusing on the face in front of him. Jim’s hair was a riot, and though his skin was pale under his freckles, his eyes were as brilliantly blue as ever, staring back up at Spock.

Jim sighed, closing his eyes and shoving himself firmly up against Spock’s side. He looped an arm over Spock’s chest, hooked a skinny ankle over his calf, and promptly began to snore softly.

Spock blinked down at his friend, caught off guard. He shifted slightly, moving his back around the tree root digging into his shoulder blade. Jim simply clutched tighter.

Spock sighed. Moving Jim before he woke up seemed counter-productive.

He shrugged down until he was lying flat on his back, one hand coming up to hold Jim’s head against him as he moved. He could feel the quirk of Jim’s mouth as he smiled in his sleep.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. The air was warm, and if his fingers slipped into Jim’s hair as he drifted off, well, no one would be the wiser

  
[   
**  
_Baby Brother_   
**   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7tZDC2UwlE)   
__

_Hey_

 _My little baby brother used to play down on the floor  
But now he's not satisfied to do it anymore  
He's got a funny habit and I don't know why  
He walks around the ceiling, stepping on the flies_

 _Baby brother, baby brother  
Well he learnt to crawl  
On the kitchen wall  
Baby brother_

 _Well just the other day, well-a bless-a my soul  
I found him swimming round in the goldfish bowl  
Since nobody told him that he hadn't oughta  
He swam around for hours, with his head underwater_

 _Baby brother, baby brother  
Well you may swim all you wish  
But don't eat the fish  
Baby brother_

 _Well, my little baby brother, he's a cute little cuss  
But it's plain to see that he's not one of us  
Where did we get him? I know you're gonna ask it  
We found him on the porch in a crazy little basket_

 _Baby brother, baby brother  
Although your hair is blue  
We think the world of you  
Baby brother_

 _Well, I bought my baby brother a toy balloon  
He let it get away and it floated toward the moon  
Instead of crying he climbed up on the fence  
Started flapping his arms and we ain't seen him since_

 _Baby brother, baby brother  
Although he's out in outer space  
I can still see his face  
Baby brother_

 _Although you're out in outer space  
I can still see your face  
Baby brother_.

 


	6. I Just Don't Know What to Do (with myself)

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Six**_  
 **Title:** I Just Don't Know What to Do (with myself)  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 6,840 (omg wth)  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:** language for this part, slight violence and eventual underage sexual activity. also vomiting in this bit.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.

 

* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.

(approx. ages for this bit- 10/11 and 12/13)

  


 _2242 late summer_

 

“Jim, listen to me.” Her voice is firm, steady, and cold. “This is about being responsible, and doing the right thing.”

 

He can feel the clench and twist of his guts, and wishes he could throw up. Maybe that would make him feel better. Maybe.

 His mother is standing in front of him, her hand under his chin; her eyes are as blue as his, and just as wet, but her voice doesn’t waver a fraction. Dust motes dance in the rays of early morning light that pour through the windows of the spaceport, individual as snowflakes, but nowhere near as special.

 

“I made this decision because I thought, I _think_ , that this is the best thing for me to do right now, for you, for me, for all of us.”

 

He can feel that his shirt front is getting soaked through from the tears that he can’t seem to keep from rolling down his face; fat, wet, silent drops of reproach, salty and warm and shameful in the tracks they leave on his cheeks. He _hates_ this, hates _her_ , hates _himself_ for betraying himself like this. He’s such a _baby_ , such a worthless _child_ , and he would give anything, _anything_ , to be someone else right now.

 

“I signed a contract, Jim. I can’t back out now. You have to stand by your word, you have to do the things you agree to do.”

 

Her voice is military in its precision, a tone he’s never heard from her before. He can hear that clipped intonation as it must sound echoing over comm channels; it’s like hearing it through a tin can, the way it sounds as it pushes past the rushing in his ears.

She sighs, traces her hand across his cheek, and he can’t help himself, he grabs her arm, clutching at her one last time.

 

“How would it look if I quit now? How could you ever respect me? Honor is carrying through, no matter what the cost. Doing what is asked of you _without_ flinching. Jim…”

 

She looks at him, bites her lip. Her thin eyebrows are wrinkled into the lines of her forehead.

 

“…Jim. It’s not that long. Six months, then I’ll be back for Christmas.”

 

Stands up, pulls him into a tight, hard hug. He squeezes, burying his face into her chest, only letting go when she forcibly pulls away from him. She extracts herself, pushes him off by the shoulders, and meets his eyes one last time.

 

“Chin up, kiddo. Things’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

 

He can’t move. He knows this. If he moves, he’ll throw himself at her, make a scene.

No one wants that.

 

“Goodbye, Frank. Take care of my boys.”

 

She stands on tiptoe, kisses him perfunctorily.

 

“Goodbye,Winona. Comm me when you get in.”

 

Jim can hear the confusion in Frank’s voice, the barely restrained civility; Frank wants to make a scene too, Jim thinks, and feels a sudden stab of camaraderie with the man.

Too bad they both know better.

 

A blink and she’s gone, moving rapidly away down the causeway, hips narrow in her blue jumpsuit, blond hair freshwashed and shinier than Jim ever remembers seeing it.

 

They watch until she’s out of sight, and then another minute longer, before they head to the parking garage, and home.

 

\--

 

Frank scrubs at his face with both hands as they pull up next to the farmhouse. It’s early still, not yet eight thirty, but he looks exhausted, and older than he did a week ago. They’d left to take her to the spaceport when the morning star still sat quiescent on the dark horizon, an hour at least before dawn broke over the prairie. Now the sun is well risen and boiling down on the flat tarmac, heat rippling in front of the truck, a mirage of hope in the middle of barren asphalt.

 

“Well, kid, I gotta go to work. Shit don’t stop just because you want it to.” He sounds tired, a little overwhelmed.

 

Jim nods silently, reaches for the door handle.

 

“Your brother’s around here somewhere, I’m sure. Stay outta trouble, you hear me?”

 

Jim nods again, climbing out of the car and letting the door thud shut behind him.

 

“Good boy.”

 

 

The house is hot and empty, the late summer torpidity draped across the fields and heating Jim’s upstairs bedroom to sauna-like levels. The pile of tissues near his trashcan is gargantuan, and he flops onto his bed facing away from the mess. He doesn’t want to remember this week, never wants to remember it, but knows that’s not an option.

 

 _“Please, mom, I’ll be good, I swear, I can do better…” He clutches at her arm, pulling at her, trying to get her to face him.  
“Jimmy, no…” she shakes her arm free, turns back to the stove. He pushes up against her, sliding up under her arm, never mind that he’s too big now and has to duck a lot.  
“Mom, just give me another chance, I can just…” He can hear the whine in his voice, but he doesn’t care; his pride is not at stake here._

 _“Jim, I said_ no _. This isn’t about you.” She pulls her arm off from around him, elbowing him out of the way as she steps to the sink to drain the pasta._

 _“I’ll take out the trash every day, and I’ll do my homework on time, and…” He follows a step behind her, and yes, he knows he’s being a pest, but he’s worried, he doesn’t really believe what she said earlier, about leaving, but she sounded serious, like she might believe it, and that scares him. Finally she faces him, pushing him off of her and meeting his eyes, her gaze hard and annoyed._

 _“James, listen to me. This is not about what you want. This is about what is best for this family, and what is best for me.” She pokes a finger into the point of his shoulder, making him step back. “You need to grow up a little bit, and stop taking everything so personally.” She turns her back on him again, bustling away from him._

 _“Not everything in this life is about_ you _.”_

 

He rolls over, crumpling his pillow beneath him, before throwing it against the wall where it hits and slides down the plaster to the floor with a whump.

 

 _“Please, mom, don’t go, don’t leave me here,_ please _, take me with you…” He shoves up against her where she sits on the sofa, pressing into her side. She scoots over, bending more closely to the crossword on her padd._

 _“Jimmy, I can’t, you_ know _that.” He scoots over again, sitting hip to hip with her, leaning in to peer at her screen._

 _“14 Down is ‘Antares’. I wouldn’t take up much space, I’d be very quiet…”_

 _She keys it in, frowning at the screen and scooting over until she’s sitting in the very corner of the couch. “Jim, this is not up for discussion. The decision is made.”_

 _“Mom,_ please _, I’ll do better, I’ll be_ good _, always,_ always _, I_ promise _…” He scoots over again, pressing her into the corner, rubbing his head on her shoulder. He’s worried now. It’s been three days, and there’s not a single sign she’s going to cave. His stomach hurts all the time, and he just wants to hear her say she was kidding, or even that she was serious, but that she’s thought it over, and it’s obviously a terrible decision._

 _She pulls herself up from the couch, glaring heatedly at him as he grabs onto her sleeve._

 _“James, stop this nonsense right now. You are only making this harder on everyone. Let_ go _of my arm, and go to your room.”_

 

He pulls himself off his bed, skin sticking to the sheets, and pads barefoot into the master bedroom. It’s dim and stifling in here, full of the comforting smell of cigarettes and his mother’s perfume, combined with the still-strange smell of Frank’s deodorant and construction uniforms. The ceiling fan spins in weary circles overhead, doing its manufactured best to move the air in the still room.

He walks over to the tall bed Frank had bought when he moved in. Jim is grateful for that; the bed his parents slept in is broken down and stored in the barn, and Jim thinks Frank was right- no one should sleep in that bed anymore.

He walks over to the side, sits down heavily in the spot where his mother sleeps.

Slept.

Her nightstand is bare, the remaining personal detritus inconsequential; a couple batteries, a button from a purple blouse, a mostly used lip balm. He rifles the drawer, digging hopefully through receipts and pocket lint for something, for anything, for he doesn’t even know what, but there’s nothing there but useless bits of paper and string.

 

 _“Mom, why do you need to go? Why can’t you stay? What’s_ wrong _with us, that you won’t stay?” He can’t help the tear that slides down his cheek and drips onto the shirt she’s folding, even if he is too old to cry in front of his mother._

 _“Jimmy, honey, this is not about you. This is bigger, this is_ important _.” She looks almost sympathetic for a moment, then turns back to her suitcase on the bed, half full already. He resists the urge to upend it onto the floor._

 _“_ What’s _bigger?_ What’s _more important? Don’t you_ love _us enough?” He pushes the suitcase aside, sits on the bed in front of her. She frowns, and steps over so that she stands in front of it again._

 _“Of course I love you enough, Jim. I just… I need… I’ve never had a_ life _, sweetie, and it’s not good for me to live like this.” She adds the last folded sweater to the small orderly pile in the suitcase and turns to reach for her socks. “And it’s not good for you guys for me to be around when I’m like this. It’s time for things to change.”_

 _He gets up and stands between her and the suitcase, pulling on the hem of her t-shirt. He feels jittery with panic, trapped in fear._

 _“But why can’t we_ all _change? Why can’t we come with you? Aren’t we good enough to come with you?” She frowns, taking his face in her hands, examining his features. There’s an expression on her face as she looks at him, he’s seen it all his life. He knows when she looks like this that she’s not seeing him at all, that she sees only his father’s ghost, his infamous progenitor stamped into every freckle, every molecule of his face, of his blue eyes._

 _“James… someday you’ll understand. I have to live my life, so you can live yours. You don’t know what you’re asking, right now, when you ask me to stay.” She holds his face for a second longer, then releases it, and pushes him out of the way. “Someday you’ll know. Someday you’ll look back on this, and it’ll all make sense.” She gives him a shove toward the door. “Now go get me my boots, baby, mommy’s gotta pack.”_

 

He hauls her pillow off the bed, burying his face in the impression where her head lay until five hours ago. He can smell her shampoo, the scent of her body oil, the faint fragrance of how her skin smells, just there, in the fold of her neck.

He wraps his arms around it, inhaling deeply. Suddenly he is tired, exhausted, wearied to an atomic level. He wants to cry and cry for days, but he’s done that already, and what has it got him? Nothing but pity, and that’s the thing he wanted least of all.

He’s on his feet and walking, pulling open the closet door before he knows what he’s doing, and crawling into the cool dark beneath her dresses. Her scent is everywhere here, and in the dark he can close his eyes, relaxing into the starbursts that float through his field of vision.

He draws one deep, shuddering breath, holds it, and decides he’s done. Crying and pleading have gotten him nowhere. This is the last time he will allow himself to indulge in such childish behavior. It’s time to be a grown-up now, to take charge of himself and his own life.

To not let everything show on his face.

To do the honorable thing.

He clutches the pillow closer, leaning back against the wall and hiding his head in the hem of his mother’s coat.

No need for a coat in space, he thinks, sleepily watching the stars as they spiral behind his eyelids. His exhaustion is complete, his body releasing the last of the adrenaline, his heart slowing in the heat.

 _Space, the final frontier… no need for coats, for mothers, or for crying, ever…_

 

He is still sleeping when Sam finds him hours later, curled into a ball in the bottom of the closet.

Sam stands, looks. Closes the door, and goes back downstairs.

 

 

 _2242 fall_

 __

The first day of school dawns early and hot, the rising sun promising sweltering heat by mid-day. Jim wakes at the insistent blaring of his alarm, struggling upright in the tangled nest of sheets and yawning till his jaw cracks. He scratches his chest and staggers out of bed, snagging a stiffened towel off the bed post on his way to the bathroom, feet pounding heavy with sleep on the wood floor.

One shower later he is mostly dressed, sitting on his bed to pull on a second sock, when he notices the aroma wafting up the stairs. It smells like… food? Maybe? That’s strange, he thinks. Frank doesn’t cook.

He ties both shoes securely, pulls his padd out from under his bed, and heads down to the kitchen.

 

In the two weeks since Winona left, they’ve all behaved pretty much independently. Left to their own devices, Sam is always gone and Jim is over at Spock’s. Frank goes to work and then watches tv and drinks beer until he staggers to bed after the 11 o’clock news.  It’s been summer, and Frank has seemed uninterested in continuing the unacknowledged farce that the three of them had any desire to spend time in one another’s company.

 

Jim is fine with that.

 

Downstairs the smell of something cooking is stronger, if not any more appetizing, and he wanders into the kitchen curiously, sniffing warily at the air. Sam is nowhere to be found, as per usual, but what is less usual is Frank, standing before the stove, spatula in hand and skillet on the heat, flipping something in the pan as steam rises.

Jim slides into a chair, the feet scraping in their familiar grooves across the floor as he scoots back in, and the noise makes Frank turn.

He smiles at Jim as he pulls a slice of slightly burned bread from the toaster.

“Hey, kiddo. Thought I’d make you boys some breakfast for the first day of school.” He smiles again, the expression only a little bit forced. He’s trying, Jim decides, and nods in acknowledgement. Frank’s face darkens slightly. “Your brother hasn’t turned up yet, but what the hell, that means more for us, right, kid?” He grins again, showing his uneven teeth.

Jim nods obligingly, then gets up and pours a glass of water. He would have preferred juice, but when he’d checked the fridge two days ago, the last of the orange juice had swollen the bottle to nearly bursting, so he’d thrown it out. He’d heard it pop later, safe in the confines of the trash can, super-accelerated gaseous decay aided by the August heat and the metal enclosure.

He slides back into his chair just as Frank deposits a plate in front of him, whistling tunelessly under his breath as he turns back to the stove to load his own.

“Eat up, kid. Nothing like a little old fashioned spam and eggs to start the day off right!”

Jim eyeballs the plate suspiciously.

He’s seen that can of spam in the pantry for as long as he can remember, but it’s one of those things that can be ok forever, right? He’s not sure. He pokes it with his fork, then realizes that Frank is watching him, waiting for him to take his first bite with an expression that says he actually wants Jim to like something he’s done for once.

 

This is about doing what you’ve got to do when others are counting on you.

 

He stabs his fork into the vaguely gelatinous patty and puts it in his mouth, chews quickly, then swallows. The gag reflex hits him a second later, but he forces it down, smiling as his eyes water.

“’s good, Frank, thanks!”

Frank smiles, pleased with himself for doing something right, and digs in.

 

The roiling in his gut hits him as he pushes away from the table to put his plate in the sink, but he manages to hold it off until just as he’s heading down the stairs from brushing his teeth to catch the bus.

He knows, in that moment, with the certainty that spasms in the back of his throat, that he’s going to throw up, and that he’s got about 15 seconds to find an appropriate place to do it.

It’s long enough to race to the upstairs bathroom, crouch over the toilet bowl, and be grateful that Frank has already left for work, before he’s retching helplessly into the water, gagging again and again as the taste of breakfast rushes back through his mouth, splashing into the porcelain tunnel as he coughs and heaves.

After a time he is finished, for the moment anyway. His gut is still sour and rolling, and his head is foggy with spots and the noise roaring in his ears. He staggers up to the sink, rinses his mouth, and settles down in front of the bathtub.

Somehow staying right near a receptacle for the next little while seems like a good idea.

 

He’s not sure how many hours it is before he hears the inevitable knock on the bathroom door- he’s thrown up and fallen asleep and thrown up again several times in however long it’s been, and is just beginning to wrap his mind around the idea that he should really go to his room, or Frank’s gonna know something’s up when the sound startles him.

The knock comes again, and he manages to moan in response, which cues the door to open and Spock’s worried face to peer around the door frame. He’s gotten taller this summer, Jim notices absently. His head is level with the latch on the door now, his shoulders wider where they’re framed in the doorway as he stares down at Jim.

“Jim? Are you unwell?”

Jim moans again, beginning to push himself upright, then slumping back down as the nausea reasserts itself upon his movement.

Spock has made it over to his side and is kneeling on the orange bathmat at Jim’s side. His warm fingers press at Jim’s neck, checking his pulse and temperature.

“Are you ill?”

His eyes are dark in the dimly lit room, and Jim can only nod carefully, groaning in distress when Spock’s careful fingers palpitate his abdomen, pushing his shirt up to examine his stomach walls.

Jim licks his lips.

“Was food. Frank cooked. Think something was…”

Spock pushes something funny, and he is awfully pleased that he manages to sit up and lean forward before he heaves again into the bowl, bringing up nothing but bitter yellowish gall, his stomach muscles protesting at the repeated abuse.

Spock waits unblinkingly until his throat has stopped making the dreadful hacking noises and his spine has relaxed from its imperative thrust forward, then reaches over and begins to rub the constricted muscles in the back of his neck.

“Jim…” he sounds hesitant, and Jim thinks idly that if he had more energy, he’d wonder why.

“Jim… if you like, I can alleviate some of the symptoms.” He pauses, his fingers stuttering to a stop, then starting to stroke again. “I would have to meld with you.”

It’s by far the best idea Jim’s heard all day. He nods as vigorously as he dares, turning his face to Spock and tipping dangerously forward, wanting to bring those slim fingers into contact with his face as quickly as possible.

He could swear that Spock quirks that lower left corner of his mouth, and then he’s there, sliding through Jim’s mind like a current through water, a weft through the warp, lightning through a cloud, sliver and flashing and sliding his chilled mental fingers into every aching slot until Jim feels like something that might be approaching normal again.

Spock pulls his fingers away, and Jim’s face follows them for a second before he realizes, and stops short, blinking at Spock, who bites his lip and looks away.

“Thanks. I feel… better.” He runs his hand through his hair, and pulls a face at the taste of the inside of his mouth. “Think I’m gonna take a shower.”

Spock nods and stands, holding down a hand to help Jim up from the floor.

“Do not take long. I have removed the symptoms, but your body is still weakened and dehydrated.”

Jim nods, taking a towel from the cabinet behind the door and pulling his shirt off as Spock leaves the small room.

 

 

Spock is right; he feels better, but his body is weak, and he feels floaty, with the detached sort of spinny feeling he gets after being in the sun too long. He dries off, noticing without surprise that Spock has set a pile of clean clothes on the counter.

He dresses slowly, taking the time to lean on the sink and brush his teeth twice, then makes his way to his room, weaving lightly but managing not to knock into the doorframe. Spock is sitting on his bed waiting for him, and Jim flops down beside him with relief, sighing as his muscles relax into the mattress.

“Here. Drink.”

Spock hands him a glass of water, which Jim downs in short order before scooting up the bed to set the empty vessel on the nightstand and sink back down.

“Jim.”

Spock’s voice is restrained in the dim heat. It must be late afternoon, Jim thinks.

It’s beastly hot, but the sun is no longer shining through the slats of the blinds. He feels himself beginning to slide into a doze, the space between awake and truly asleep so nearby in the heat.

“Why did you not tell me that your mother had left?”

His stomach begins to hurt again, and he rolls over to face down into the pillow. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. He sighs into the pillow. He can hear Spock waiting, his giant brain ticking over like a well-loved automaton, a perfect piece of exquisite clockwork.

“I… dunno? I mean…” he buries his face more deeply, “I just…” He thinks for a minute. “It’s just like… Spock, your mom is so awesome, and my mom…well, she’s just…” He stills himself, lying straight and quiet on the bed. “I did something wrong, Spock, and now she’s left. And she’s not coming back for a long time. And… I just… didn’t know what to say?” He bites his lip to muffle the sob which pushes at his throat. He won’t cry. Not in front of Spock, not in front of anyone. Not over something as childish as his mother leaving.

He feels the mattress shift, and turns his head, opening his eyes.

Spock’s face is inches from his own, and his eyes hold a look of guilty surprise, his hand hovering in mid-air. He breathes in, completes the gesture, pushing a stray lock of Jim’s sandy hair off his forehand, his fingers skimming past the meld point on Jim’s temple and sparking a tiny flash of electricity that Jim can feel in the sides of his neurons.

Jim bites his cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of the tiny amount of space between them, of the exact shade of the coffee-lit low-lights of Spock’s eyes, of the way the skin of his lip splits in the middle, the way his tongue slides out hesitantly to wet it as he breathes.

            There is not a decision, simply an act, and Jim is pressing his mouth to Spock’s, feeling the strangely firm softness of lips against his, different than Chrissy’s, warmer and smoother and with a different taste. He pushes closer, letting his mouth open to taste the odd heated spice of his friend, bumping his nose to the side. Spock inhales, a tiny gasp of surprise, but he doesn’t pull away, moves his head slightly to accommodate Jim’s exploring mouth as it pushes into the corners of his lips, moving gingerly against its companion. Jim licks along the swell of Spock’s bottom lip, tracing the split with his tongue as he slips his hand into Spock’s, stroking his fingers over knuckle and thumb and squirming forward until they’re pressed together at mouth and hand and hip.

 

The door slams downstairs and they spring apart, Jim rolling onto his back and Spock sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, leaving Jim to contemplate his ramrod straight spine as they listen to the sounds of adults arguing downstairs. The voices of a man and a woman, and for one transcendent second Jim thinks that his mom has come back early before he recognizes the tones of Amanda’s voice lifted in exasperation, and his heart drops again.

 

“Spock says Jimmy has food poisoning. Food poisoning, Frank. What did you do?”

“What did _I_ do? I tried to cook breakfast, like a normal parent would.”

Amanda’s voice is rising in both pitch and volume.

“What did you make?” She pauses for a second. “You _do_ know how to cook, right?”

“Of _course_ I know how to cook, what kind of retard do you think I am?” Frank sounds offended and defensive, a bad combination, Jim knows from experience.

“I don’t think you’re a retard, Frank.” Amanda has moved from irate into pacifying. “I think you’ve been left with a couple of kids that you don’t know how to deal with, and I want to know what you’ve done to make one of them sick enough to spend all day vomiting.”

“What I’ve done? What _I’ve_ done?” Frank is yelling now, and Jim can see Spock’s hands fisting in the bed spread. “What about what _you’ve_ done, you meddling bitch? I was happily married for all of a fucking _year_ , a year that you spent sticking your goddamn big nose in where it doesn’t _belong_ , giving Winona _ideas_ about ‘ _bettering herself_ ’” his voice simpers, “and ‘ _owning her life_ ’, and what did she do? She up and fucking left, and it’s all because _you_ don’t know your place.”

“Frank.” Amanda’s voice is icy enough that Jim shudders involuntarily. “This is unbecoming of you. I think you had better leave until you calm down a bit.”

“You goddamn bet I will. And you had better not _fucking_ well be in my house when I get back. You take your goddamn _freaky_ son” the sound of a fist slamming against a table, “and get the _hell_ out of my house.”

The door slams again, and Jim can hear Spock exhale slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the bed, wrinkles creasing the fabric as though they’d been ironed in.

Footsteps up the stairs, then Amanda is sitting next to him, hand on his forehead.

“Spock helped you with your symptoms?”

Jim nods silently, body still tense against the mattress.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, baby.” She turns her head to the side. “You too, Spock. That was inappropriate behavior on both our parts, and I’m sorry.” She sighs heavily, stroking Jim’s forehead and replacing the empty glass with a full one she’s brought from downstairs.

“Jim. What he said. About your mother.” She sighs again. “I suppose it’s true, in a way. I _did_ encourage her. I thought she needed to do something for herself, but I had thought… a hobby, or some classes, or…” She takes Jim’s chin her hand, and forces his head around so he’s looking her in the eye.

“Jim. Please believe me, I _never_ thought she’d leave.”

Her expression is anguished, and Jim has to look away as his lip trembles. He’s done with crying, even if Amanda is sad, it’s too late now. She’s gone, and he’s not going to cry about it anymore.

She runs a last hand through his hair, then stands.

“I’m going to run to the store, hon. Pick up some groceries.” She frowns down at him. “Drink a lot, ok? And comm me if you feel bad again, you hear?”

He nods.

“Good boy.”

She leans down, kisses his cheek in a swirl of perfume and hair, then heads for the door. Spock rises and begins to follow her, but Jim stretches out a hand, catching at his sleeve before he even knows why.

Spock’s eyes are surprised, but he comes back, examining Jim’s face with a questioning gaze.

What he sees, Jim’s not sure, but he lies down on the bed, pushing at Jim’s shoulder until he rolls over. Jim goes over obediently, and Spock curls himself in behind him, chest to back, knee to knee, draping an arm over his chest and pulling him close.

It’s  little too warm, but Jim can’t bring himself to care, and for the first time in two weeks lets himself relax and just breathe.

 

 _2243 early spring_

It’s cold outside, and Jim hugs his coat tight around him as his breath puffs out in little clouds into the night air, steaming nebulas of water vapor that drift and vanish.

He’s sitting on the porch swing, pushing back and forth with a toe on the porch rail to listen to the creak of the chains in the cold, watching as the stars twinkle one by one into existence over the purpling horizon.

The sounds of Sam and Frank’s latest altercation echo from the inside, and Jim wraps his arms more tightly around his skinny frame.

He’s cold, and he knows that’s at least in part because he’s lost some weight- there’s not too much now between him and the night air besides skin and cloth, but he doesn’t shiver. He likes the cold; it’s clean, and still, and pure in a way that appeals to him, freezing out any sticky imperfections, leaving him frozen stiff and sterile in the deep twilight.

This must be what deep space is like, he thinks, only more so. Cold and black and clear and safe.

The door bangs loudly, echoing with a crack around the silent yard, and Sam storms out onto the porch, stomping his boots on the wooden planks. He’s red in the face, and steam pours from his nostrils as he huffs angry breaths out his nose. Jim can see an eye beginning to swell, a crescent of split skin along his cheekbone. He turns his face back to the yard and waits.

Sam’s breaths eventually begin to even out, coming more slowly from where he sits on the steps. He puts his face in his hands and rubs roughly at his scalp, blunt fingers scratching through his hair in an exasperated repetitive motion.

“Leave.”

Sam raises his head. “Huh?”

“Do it. Leave.” Jim shrugs. “I know you want to.”

A series of expressions flicker across Sam’s face, denial prominent among them.

“Don’t pretend, Sam. I know about the money you keep hidden under the floorboard, and I know about the food you’ve been hiding in the barn.” Jim can hear his voice, flat and bored in the cold air. “Just do it. Go.”

Sam blinks at him incredulously. “But…”

“What?” Jim laughs once, a brittle sound. “You think Mom’s gonna come down and spank your butt for running off?” he kicks at the porch railing. “Hell, by the time she finds out, you can be long gone.”

Sam stares at him, considering. Nods once.

“Yeah. You’re right. I could.” He pauses. “But, Jim… what about you?”

Jim snorts, pushing down the hard knot in his stomach.

“What are you, my knight in shining armor?” He snorts again, looking out into the yard. “Go on. I don’t need you. Get out of here, go do whatever it is you’re going to do. Get a life.”

He stands up, leaving the swing to jolt and lurch behind him, bereft of his slight weight. He can feel Sam’s eyes watching him as he walks inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

 

It’s no real surprise to him in the morning when he wakes to a message flashing on his padd, the insistent light callous in its repetitive flicker.

 

 _Jimbo- Gone. If you need to get ahold of me, try Bones- I’ll leave info w him. Don’t tell Ma. Stay outta trouble. –S_

 

He reads the message twice, then deletes it. Sets his padd down, pulls on his shoes, and heads out into the chill morning sun.

 

 

 _2243 late spring_

 

It’s one of those days that they wrote that old rhyme about March being like a lion for, Jim thinks, except that it’s late April, and the smell of daffodils is fading, soon to be replaced with the scent of honeysuckle hot on the breeze. It’s warm out, but the breeze is brisk, scudding the clouds across the sky like ships before a strong wind, big puffy marshmallow poofs of white foam, breaking across the horizon.

Shapes in these clouds are momentary, artful collages of mist formed into racing horses and archers firing and canons blasting one second, then morphed into something new, something different, something changed the next. Impermanent, Jim thinks, like everything else.

A shadow crosses between him and the sun-drenched sky, and he blinks up, staring up the interminable length of Spock from where Jim lays on his back in the grass. He smiles involuntarily, the sight of Spock’s vaguely disapproving default expression enough to make his chest warm, even if Spock is wearing the look that says he’s not entirely sure what Jim’s doing, but is sure it’s somehow inappropriate.

“Hey, Spock.” He raises a hand to shade his eyes. “Hey, come sit down here, you’re blocking my view.”

Spock raises his face to the sky, scanning the heavens for something of note. He lowers his eyes to look down at Jim again, his expression puzzled.

“Your view of what?”

Jim grins. “The pirates, silly.” He looks again. “Or maybe they’ve changed into ninjas. Look!” he points to a small cluster of cloudlets in the northeast quadrant of blue sky. He can see the second that Spock gets it, and he laughs as Spock sinks to the grass beside him, folding his long legs up like a grasshopper so they poke out to either side of his narrow body. He holds out a small plate, quirking his slight smile at Jim while still managing to express his utter disdain for the illogical activity of cloud watching.

“You missed dessert.”

Jim takes the plate, eyeballing the slice with delight. Cherry, it looks like. His favorite.

“Thankth, Thpockh.” He tries to enunciate carefully around the forkful he’s already shoved into his mouth, but it’s hard; there are still a few crumbs that fall, Spock brushing them unobtrusively from his pant legs.

“What do you see?” He chews and swallows, looking at his friend as he cuts another bite and shoves it into his mouth. Spock quirks an eyebrow at him, and Jim gestures skyward, spreading his fingers to indicate the clouds.

He lies back down onto the grass, watching as Spock gazes intently heavenward.

“I see a moving mass of water vapors following wind currents according to chaotic quantum predictions of air flow, taking into account such factors as ground surface temperature, barometric pressure, and the approaching low pressure system.” His dark eyes twinkle as he looks seriously back at Jim.

Jim sucks another bite off the fork and rolls his eyes.

“Jerkh. C’mon. What do you thee?”

Spock lets his eyebrows knit slightly with concentration.

“I see a boy with cherry pie filling halfway to his ear.”

Jim scowls and shoves the last bite into his mouth, shoving at Spock with his shoulder.

“Oh, c’mon, Thpock.” He swallows, swipes at his face with his shirtsleeve. “Can’t you be at least a little bit fun anymore?”

Spock sighs, and turns his face to the sky, studying the moving cloudforms with academic intensity.

“I see… a great bird of some kind.” He raises a finger and points, shadowing his face and casting him into stark silhouette against the sea of grass to his side. “See, left wing tip dips down just there, and the right…” He sighs. “It’s gone.”

Jim rolls up against him, pulling on Spock’s arm where it’s propping him up, pushing at his elbow to make it give. “Hey, come down here. Watch clouds with me. You can’t see them like that, it’ll crick your neck.” He pushes again at Spock’s arm, frowning in confusion when Spock picks up his arm, sitting up and hugging his knees.

“No.”

“Spock?” Jim feels confused, and his shoulder is cold where Spock’s body heat has been taken away. Did he do something wrong? He checks his hands for crumbs. He’d brushed them off pretty carefully…

“Jim…” Spock sighs and looks away, mumbling something into his knees.

“Huh?” He sits up and pushes up to Spock’s shoulder, resting his chin on Spock’s arm. “What’d you say?”

The flash of annoyance in Spock’s eyes is sudden, and it catches Jim off guard, making him inhale sharply and pull back. He feels a sudden chasm open in the bottom of his stomach. What’s wrong? What has he done?

Spock’s expression changes to one of remorse tempered with irritation, but he doesn’t reach out to touch Jim the way he usually would.

“Spock?” Jim hears his voice crack on the name, and coughs once to clear the sudden lump from his throat. “Spock? What’s wrong?”

“Jim…” Spock glances quickly at him, then away. “We’re too old for this.”

“Too old for what?” Jim is just getting more confused. “Too old for cloud watching? Who cares?”

“No.” Spock shakes his head and gestures at the space between them, and at Jim’s hand already reaching out toward him. “This.”

“This?” Jim repeats dumbly. He knows he sounds like a broken record, but he’s really not getting whatever it is that Spock is trying to tell him.

“This. This…” Spock looks away. “Jim… I’m Vulcan.”

Jim nods. “Uh-huh….” Finally, something he can agree with.

“Vulcans don’t…” He looks over at Jim again, and something unidentifiable crosses his face. “Vulcans don’t touch. Only family members touch, and only in private.” Spock’s eyes are nearly sad, Jim thinks, but he’s still not getting whatever it is Spock’s trying to say.

“But… Spock” he gestures to the back yard, “this _is_ private. Besides, you’re the only Vulcan here. ‘Cept your dad, and he doesn’t care.” He narrows his eyes as he begins to process the rest of the statement. “And we’re family. Aren’t we?” He reaches his hand out again, wanting to scoot close, but Spock slides out of reach.

“Jim…” his voice is gentle, but his tone is firm. “We aren’t little kids anymore. You can’t just go around hanging on me like you do. It’s…” He refuses to meet Jim’s gaze. “It’s inappropriate.”

Jim suddenly flashes on the momentary finger brushes he’s seen Sarek and Amanda share, the only contact they ever make in anyone’s presence, and he suddenly feels his cheeks flush hot as the pieces fall into place. He pulls his arm back, and can see that Spock knows he gets it now. Well. Ok. That’s fine. He wasn’t thinking about Spock like that anyway. Was he? No. He wasn’t. Definitely not. And Spock definitely wasn’t thinking about him like that either, he’s sure. Was he? No. He wouldn’t.

“Jim…it’s just… I’m going to Vulcan soon, for the summer, and…” Spock’s looking at him again, but Jim’s cheeks are still hot, and he can’t meet those clear eyes. “… and I need to be used to not touching anyone…” His voice trails off, and Jim can tell that he knows it’s a lame excuse.

He doesn’t care suddenly. He just wants out. He stands, gathers his plate.

“Jim…”

“Don’t worry, Spock. I won’t touch you…” Jim turns around and leers “…inappropriately anymore.” He turns his back, heading for the house. “See you around.”

The stricken look on Spock’s face is seared into his mind, but he doesn’t care. All he can think of is how soon it will be before Spock is leaving, again, and how all he wants, for once, just once, is to be the one who leaves first.

  
[I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTKCFh8qcik)

 _I just don't know what to do with myself  
I don't know what to do with myself  
planning everything for two  
doing everything with you  
and now that we're through  
I just don't know what to do_

 _I just don't know what to do with myself  
I don't know what to do with myself  
movies only make me sad  
parties make me feel as bad  
cause I'm not with you_   
_  
I just don't know what to do_

 _like a summer rose  
needs the sun and rain  
I need your sweet love  
to beat love away_

 _well I don't know what to do with myself  
just don't know what to do with myself  
planning everything for two  
doing everything with you  
and now that we're through  
I just don't know what to do_

 _like a summer rose  
needs the sun and rain  
I need your sweet love  
to beat love away_

 _I just don't know what to do with myself  
just don't know what to do with myself  
just don't know what to do with myself  
I don't know what to do with myself_   



	7. I'm Slowly Turning Into You

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: year seven**_  
 **Title:** I'm Slowly Turning Into You  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 3,849  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:** a tiny bit of language for this part, and eventual underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.  
 ****

 **A/N pt 3:** This chapter is dedicated to Renee, aka [](http://easilymused1956.livejournal.com/profile)[**easilymused1956**](http://easilymused1956.livejournal.com/) , [who passed away recently](http://community.livejournal.com/reneeasilymused/269.html). I can't say I knew her well, but she had read this fic and commented on it, and always had something nice to say. RIP Renee, thrusters on full.

(approx. ages for this bit- 11/12 and 13/14)

 

 

 _2243 fall_

 

The sound of the pneumatic drill was loud in the confines of the shed, and Spock covered his ears against the repetitive whine. Jim had his tongue sticking out again, caught in the corner of his mouth as he concentrated, focused entirely on the task at hand. The metal bent, then screamed, then gave as the screw pushed through the plating, driven inexorably by the machine propelling it.

There was a sudden curse, followed immediately by a crash and an immense clatter as the clamps holding the oil pan in place fell, dropping the pan to the floor and spraying highly refined engine lubricant all over the room and its occupants.

Spock could feel his face move through expressions; first shock, then horror, then resignation. Jim jumped straight to hilarity, falling over on his back and rolling on the floor while howling with laughter.

He paused for a second to catch a breath, locked eyes with Spock, and was off again, kicking his heels against the floor as he gasped for breath.

“Oh… god… Spock…”

Spock twitched an eyebrow. He could feel his annoyance rising. This was how it always went. Jim would make some mistake, and then mock Spock for the result of the outcome. He pressed the irritation down, and raised his sleeve to wipe his face.

“If you could just see yourself…” Jim was calming a bit, though his breath still wheezed with laughter. “It’s just… you’ve got… your eyebrow…” he dissolved into giggles again.

Spock scowled, and scrubbed at his face again with his sleeve.

“Better?”

Jim looked up, tears pooling on his red cheeks.

“Well… mostly.” He smiled carefully, his face beginning to register awareness of Spock’s blackened mood. “Just… in your eyebrow…” he gestured and Spock rubbed again, but the look on Jim’s face didn’t change. “Here, let me just…”

Jim stood up and walked over, licking his thumb and rubbing it across Spock’s brow before Spock could blink.

His ears roared and his heart pounded as his mind was suddenly flooded with images; Jim licking a finger and running it down Spocks ear, Spock taking Jim’s hands into his mouth and tasting them, Jim licking into Spock’s mouth as he slid his hands down bare flesh…

Spock took a shaky step backward, exhaling hard through his mouth.

“I… need a moment.” He gestured desperately to the door. “Be right back.”

A frown crossed Jim’s face, but Spock was already gone, doing his best not to sprint to the barn door, then opening it and collapsing in the dark.

He leaned against the barn wall, forcing his mind to ground itself and center, calming his racing pulse, adjusting his circulation and blood flow. He breathed in and out through his nose, releasing his sudden fear and anxiety, allowing the cool calm of the autumn night to seep into his overheated flesh.

His father had warned him that there would be moments like these. His parents had made the choice to leave him unbonded, a choice which Spock still appreciated and agreed with. But it was not without its side effects. The bond, or so Spock had been told, helped to anchor the adolescent mind, allowing it to “check in”, as it were, with a peer, an equal, a mate. This had a stabilizing influence in the face of rapid physical and psychological change, allowing bonded individuals to ride out adolescence somewhat more smoothly than their unbonded counterparts.

He had been warned.

Sudden spikes of seemingly unwarranted rage, or jealousy, or devotion. Or lust.

It was logical that Jim had the ability to trigger these feelings, he knew that. He had known Jim longer than any person other than his parents. Jim and he spent a lot of time together, both now, and in their more formative years. He and Jim were good friends, who shared space and thoughts and words and time.

It was logical.

Which did not, he reflected, make it any less disconcerting.

The door beside him opened and closed, disgorging his friend, now cleaned of the grease splatters and proffering a clean rag.

“Here.” He settled down a foot away from Spock, holding out the rag at arm’s length. “I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t want to be touched.”

Spock could hear the remembered rejection in that voice, and sighed inwardly. He had done that badly, and Jim had still not forgiven him entirely. It was deserved, he supposed.

“No.” He took the rag and rubbed it across his face methodically, making sure to cover every inch. “It was not that.”

Jim shifted thoughtfully, his face glowing pale in the dim light.

“You… wanna tell me what it was?”

Spock froze, his brain swirling. Even here in the dark, without contact, he was hyper-aware of Jim’s presence. Every atom in his body seemed attuned to the being next to him, reaching out on a molecular level for some sort of link.

“Jim…”

“It’s ok if you don’t. I understand.” It was the resignation in his voice that decided him, and Spock wrapped his arms around his knees, clutching his own wrists as he cleared his throat.

“Jim… you know that I am unbonded.”

A shift in the dark indicated a nod.

“Most Vulcans are bonded around the age of seven or eight.” He swallowed. “Not all. But most. For… several reasons.”

Jim nodded again.

“Our people feel very deeply. Any Vulcan will tell you that. It is logic that permits us to control our actions, but we still feel.”

“Spock…” It never failed to impress him that Jim could convey an eyeroll in vocal tone. “I know Vulcan history. You guys were crazy passionate, and then there was Surak and you all became logical, yada yada yada.” He made a dismissive hand gesture. “Get on with it.”

“One reason is to allow adolescence to be less tumultuous.” Spock had to force himself to continue. He’s grateful for the bad lighting; it means that he doesn’t have to look Jim in the eye. “A bonded mind is a more stable mind. It has a partner with which to center itself, to balance itself, to…” he trailed off. It was a hard concept to communicate.

“To give a reality check?”

“…yes, of sorts. Anyway, those of us who are unbonded… we experience something closer to what our pre-Surak ancestors dealt with.” He bowed his head. “Moments of pure emotion. Of irrationality.”

“Oh…” Comprehension was clear in Jim’s voice. “So, that was you having an irrational moment of upset?”

“…yes.” Upset was certainly one word for it, Spock thought. No need to clarify.

“I apologize for reacting badly.”

“It’s ok, buddy.” Jim tweaked the tip of his ear, and Spock nearly choked. “It’s all good.”

 

 

 

 _2243 winter_

 

“Spock?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Can you come here for a sec?”

Spock closed his book, carefully marking the page before laying it on the end table and wandering into the kitchen.

His mother was seated at the large kitchen table, completely surrounded by seeds, dirt, and assorted gardening detritus. Spock lifted an eyebrow in amusement at the sight.

“Feeding many?”

Amanda shot him a dire look.

“You laugh, boyo. But we all know how you go through the pickled okra. Don’t tease the hand that feeds you.” She peered mock-sternly over her reading glasses at him, and he pulled out a chair in an attempt at meekness.

“No, Mother, I won’t Mother, how can I help you, Mother?”

She reached over and smacked his arm, biting back a smile.

“Smart ass.”

Her face resumed its look of concentration as she pressed a finger into the center of a cube of dirt, leaving a small oval depression. Dirt made half moons under all of the nails on her left hand, a direct result of the line of seeded cubes on a tray at the far end of the table.

“Spock, I wanted to talk to you about Jimmy.”

Spock folded his arms. She selected three seeds, carefully settling them into the depression, pressing lightly before placing the cube in a row of others on the tray to her right.

“I’m worried about him”

“You and everyone else, Mother.”

“Oh, I know.” She took another cube and set it in front of her, rifling through a stack of seed packets before pulling one with a cheery illustration of ripe red tomatoes and opening it. “But I’m worried about his relationship with us.” She frowned, tipped the seeds onto the table in front of her.

“What do you mean?”

“Not his relationship with you.” She looked up, met his eyes. “I know you two are very close. And that’s fine.” She looked down again, and Spock could feel the flush rising in his face. Close. Yes. His mother knew more than she let on, it would be to his benefit to remember that.

“It’s just…” she sighed, and moved the seeds around with her fingernail, dividing them into piles before pushing them together again. “He’s awfully attached to all of us, Spock. He’s over here all the time. He eats meals with us, sleeps over, comes on the occasional weekend away…” Her voice trailed off. “You know I love the kid to pieces, Spock, but it’s not healthy. I worry about him getting too attached. He has a family, even if they are a bunch of losers, at least as far as I can tell.” She scowled ferociously, and Spock was suddenly reminded of the old phrase ‘if looks could kill’.

 “He accidentally called me ‘mom’ the other day, Spock.” Her voice caught, and Spock felt his breath freeze in his throat. “I don’t know who was more horrified, him or me. I mean, if she were dead, or had actually abandoned him, or if he were a foster kid, or _something_ , _anything_ else…” She looked up at him again, willing him to understand.

“But he’s not.” His voice was steady.

“No. He’s not.”

She began moving abruptly, scraping seeds into envelopes, moving dirt around on the tray.

“And Spock, we’re not always going to be around. We go to Vulcan every summer. Sometimes more often. You’re older than he is; at some point, you’re going to finish school and leave, and what happens then?” She looked him, and he felt caught. The concern was plain in her eyes, and he knew it was echoed in his own.

“Anyway.” She brushed the dirt off the table and into her hand, rising to dump it into the compost bucket that stood by the sink. “Your father and I have to go to dinner tonight, that Andorian thing.” She waved a hand absently, shutting the cabinet door.

He nodded.

“We’ll be back late- feed yourself, ok?”

“Yes, mother.”

She smiled at him, ruffled his hair, then turned, sweeping past where he stood motionless to mount the stairs, her tread echoing in the nearly empty house.

 

 

 

 _2244 spring_

 

“Hey Spock?”

Spock looked up from the fretboard of his lyre.

“Yes?”

“Will you do that thing again?”

Spock played a few more bars. The F string was slightly out of tune. He would need to replace it sooner, rather then later.

“ ‘that thing’?”

“You know…”

Jim waggled his fingers vaguely at Spock before arranging them haphazardly on his face. His homework lay forgotten on the bed in front of him, the stylus abandoned in a fold of the quilt.

Spock bent his head to the fretboard again, plucking a note and frowning slightly. Maybe it was the peg holding the F string that needed replacing. Really it was the Earth humidity that was the problem; how were you supposed to keep a wooden instrument tuned consistently when the barometric pressure was always changing?

“that thing. That thing you did when I was having a panic attack? That one.”

“No.”

There is a moment of silence. Spock does not look up. It’s a mark of Jim’s growing maturity that the response is not an immediate whine.

“How come?”

“Because.”

Spock doesn’t have to look at him to know Jim’s rolling his eyes. He smiles to himself.

“It’s not appropriate.”

“How come?”

“Jim…”

He felt the frustration, knew it to be unwarranted. He breathed out, readjusted his fingers on the strings.

“Jim, a meld is only used for very specific purposes in Vulcan culture. It is… personal. Not to be done lightly.”

He plucked a string, then another.

“What is it used for?”

He looked up. Jim’s face was in ‘genuinely curious’ mode, his chin propped on his hands and his eyes wide.

Spock strummed chord, sliding his fingers incrementally to fix the pitch.

“Well…” He paused. It was hard to explain melding etiquette. So much of it was just instinctive to a telepathic species. He was at a little bit of a loss.

“Well, Vulcans are touch telepaths.”

“Right.”

“So, when we touch someone, we can feel what they’re thinking. Not necessarily exactly, but we can get the gist of it. It varies from person to person.”

“Right.”

“Melding is more… specific, and more… intimate.” He frowns, looking at the notation on the sheet in front of him. “It’s not done casually.”

Jim wrinkled his forehead. “So, it’s like a special occasion thing?”

“In some sense, I suppose. One might meld with a family member, to express love or comfort or affection. Parents meld with children, partners with each other. Even siblings, especially when they’re younger.” He thinks. “It can be used when there is no other way to convey information. If someone is injured, and cannot communicate, or when bearing testimony, if the details are very important.”

Jim watched him intently.

“Or, as I did, to assist someone in distress. I…” He cleared his throat. “What I did was wrong. One should never force a meld. But I couldn’t think of another way to calm you down in time, and I was concerned for your well-being.” He looked away, fingers moving tunelessly across the strings. “I apologize.”

Jim just smiled. “It’s ok, Spock. It was good. I appreciated it.” He rolled over onto his side, stretching an arm out. “Can we do it again? Please?”

Spock tightened a string, and strummed the first few lines of the song. Maybe it wasn’t so terrible an idea. It could be brief. It would be instructive for Jim, and if he was to go into Starfleet, it was best for him to already have some experience with telepaths.

“What are you playing?”

“A piece Nyota suggested I learn.”

“Is that… did Nyota really tell you to learn Stairway to Heaven?”

“She said it was a classic.” Spock shrugged.

Jim began to laugh. “Ok. Points to Nyota. Never would have pegged her for a Zeppelin fan. Now get over here.”

Spock set aside his lyre, placing it carefully on its stand and folding the piece of music away. He rose, walked over to the bed, and sat down next to Jim, who was now lying on his back and kicking his heels against the headboard.

“Ok, Jim.” Spock raised his hand and positioned his fingers an inch above Jim’s meld points. He could already feel the intense current moving between his finger pads and the sensitive spots on Jim’s face. Jim’s eyes were impossibly blue.

“It goes like this…”

 

 

 _2244 summer_

 

Jim would be asleep in the barn out back, he knew. It was where he spent most of his summer nights. His upstairs room became unbearably hot, and even though it was only May, they had had record breaking temperatures for most of the month.

 

Thunder crashed again, nearer this time, and Spock winced as the sound ricocheted off his sensitive eardrums, piercing into his inner membranes. It would be raining soon, the heavy deluges that accompanied this sort of slow building prairie storm.

 

He stood, wrapping his light summer blanket around his shoulders. Another flash of lightning painted his room in stark white for the space of a second, the shapes of desk, table, bed branded on his retinas as the blackness took hold again.

 

One-onethousand two-onethousand three-onethousand four-onethousand.

 

Spock covered his ears as the boom rolled in across the plain, sound rattling around the wood of the old farmhouse.

 

It was still four miles away. He had time.

 

He made his way downstairs in the dark, his bare feet padding soundlessly on the wooden floor, sticky and dank with the humidity of the day. The linoleum of the kitchen floor was cool beneath him, but damp; his feet pulled loose from each step with a moist pop. He made his way across the room and toed on a pair of shoes at the back door before slipping ghost-like into the thick-aired dark.

 

Nothing stirred in the fields as he crossed the half mile that lay between his house and the Kirk's; all the creatures of the night had taken cover already, aware of the storm before the bipeds by the dropping barometric pressure and the premature darkening of the sky. The stalks of corn stood eerily still in their rows, so many silent soldiers awaiting marching orders blown at thunder’s blast. Spock could feel the goosebumps rising on his arms as the pressure moved again, bending the atmosphere to meteorological will.

 

The barn was pitch black, but light was unnecessary. He moved across the dirt floor to the wooden ladder by muscle memory alone, climbing the rungs to the hayloft as a sudden gust of wind whistled through the open roof, flinging dust and strands of hay into the air to dance and chase each other on the currents and eddys of storm breath.

He found Jim by scent, crossing the open expanse of wooden floor to the corner under the eaves, his warm smell distinctive in the midst of straw and dust and cat. Spock thought at first that he was asleep, but as he sat down, a sudden flash of light illuminated the pale blue eyes staring up at him.

 

"Storm gettin' to ya?"

 

Spock nodded wordlessly, pulling the blanket around him and covering his ears. Warm hands came to settle over his, and the next clap of thunder was more muted than the previous. He sighed in relief.

 

"Spock, you are so badass in every other way. It just kills me that storms freak you out."

There was laughter in Jim's voice, and Spock scowled.

 

"They do not 'freak me out'. The change in barometric pressure is disconcerting, as is the humidity." He paused. "Also, I do not like loud noises."

 

"Uh huh." Jim yawned mightily, and held out an arm. "Come here. I'll help you cover your silly pointed ears."

 

He was glad the darkness hid his face. It was no doubt a distressingly unattractive shade of olive by now. He was really too old for this, but he curled into his friend's embrace, pushing himself down so that his head was within easy reach of Jim's hands. He could feel the thrum of Jim's thoughts beneath his skin, a steady flow of energy so familiar to his touch.

 

"What happened to your earplugs, anyway?"

 

Spock sighed. "I do not like them. They are not designed for Vulcan ear canals, and are therefore quite uncomfortable. Likewise earmuffs." He wiggled his head slightly, situating his hands under Jim's so that the meatiest part of their palms was directly over the opening of his ears.

 

Jim chuckled. "This works better?" Spock nodded, his body tensing as another flash of light lit the barn.

 

One-onethousand, two-onethouBOOM.

 

Much closer, and he could feel Jim laughing against him as his muscles tightened in loathing. Jim liked storms, for reasons Spock would never understand.

 

"Hey, hey. Relax, Spock, it's ok." Jim was still chuckling to himself, but his hands on Spock's hunched shoulders were soothing. "It's just the release of sound accompanying an electrical charge. And some rain."

 

On cue, the heavens opened, releasing a sudden flood of water which poured down on the peaked tin roof of the barn like hailstones, clattering and splashing and washing down the sheet metal in floods. Spock felt a sudden warm weight on his legs as one of the barn cats took refuge from the downpour against the back of his knees.

 

"Do you wanna meld?" Jim's voice was unusually hesitant in the dark. "It seems to make you calmer, at least a little bit..."

 

Spock was taken aback. He always guarded his thoughts well when they melded. Or he thought he did. Either he was not doing as well as he thought, or Jim was more perceptive than he had realized, if he had picked up on that little tidbit.

He did want to meld. Very much. It did have a calming effect on him, one that was currently very attractive. But... a niggling doubt at the back of his mind reminded him of the impropriety, the risks of repeated melds with one mind that were concurrent with his unbonded state.

He hesitated, instinctively pulling back into himself, and Jim sighed.

 

"God, Spock, honestly. It's like you have to be forced to take the things you want."

 

One of Jim's hands left his ear and gripped his fingers, placing them against Jim's face. He didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed that Jim had memorized the meld points, but by the time that Jim had slid the tips of his fingers into place, the blue sparks were leaping, humming between them, and there was nothing Spock could do to resist.

 

The slide into the meld space was nearly instantaneous now, Jim finding the way himself. Spock looked around, disconcerted. Where once was red desert and Vulcan's sky, now there were things out of place. A stalk of corn waved gently in the desert heat. Rain drops thunked occasionally to dirt, exploding in puffs of dust in the higher gravity.

 

"Jim?" Spock's voice was distant, thin in the heated air. "Are you doing this?"

 

Jim looked around in puzzlement, then laughed as he caught sight of the cornstalk.

 

"No. at least, I don't think so. Maybe?" He scratched his head, then walked forward and took Spock's hands in his. Spock shivered. Contact in the meld was electric; no longer did he simply get a hint of Jim's emotions, now he received the full dose. The difference was striking, like the space between touching a sunwarmed stone or grasping a coal, and Spock struggled to make any coherency of the crest of feeling that poured through him before Jim settled and projected calm, quiet.

 

Sadness. That was expected, and constant. Joy, also always a part of Jim's emotional state. Hints of pain, of fear, of loss. A darker, uglier thread of betrayal, deeply buried. Hidden thoughts showing only as bursts of red and orange, flares of instinct that never made it to verb.

 

Spock could hear the rain and thunder distantly, just as he could feel the warmth of Jim's body next to his, but they were far off sensations. His mind relaxed, stabilized, welcoming the touch of another mind on his, calibrating itself to the input of its partner and settling into a lightly held peace.

[   
_I'm Slowly Turning Into You_   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjeWAnnohd4)   
_  
I'm slowly turning into you  
But you don't know this  
Tell the truth  
You say I'm lying and I never really tell you the truth  
But your face is getting older  
So put your head on my shoulder  
Yeah, put your head on my shoulder_

 _Yesterday it hit me that I do all the little things  
That you do  
Except the same little things that you do are annoying  
They're annoying as hell in fact  
It kinda struck a little bell in fact  
I like to keep my little shell intact_

 _And I'm slowly turning into you  
And I'm slowly turning into you_

 _Then something else came to mind  
That was the mirror  
It made everything clearer  
That you're more beautiful compelling and stronger  
It didn't take much longer  
Just for me to realize I love all the little things  
And the beauty that they're gonna bring  
I dig your little laugh and I'm lovin' your quick wit  
I even love it when you're faking it  
And it might sound a little strange for me to say to you  
But I'm proud to be you_

 _And I'm slowly turning into you  
And I'm slowly turning into you  
And I'm slowly turning into you  
And I'm slowly turning into you  
_


	8. Offend in Every Way

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: year eight**_  
 **Title:** Offend in Every Way  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language, sexual acts  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 4,071  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:**   language for this part, and underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.

 

(approx. ages for this bit- 12/13 and 14/15)

 

 

 _2244 summer_

 

It starts like this- Spock is on Vulcan for the summer, _again_ , and Jim is bored. He sleeps till noon, eats bowl after bowl of heavily sugared cereal in front of the tv, and makes a point of being well away from the house by the time Frank comes back around six. So far he’s managed to only encounter Frank on the weekends, and from where he’s sitting, that’s only a good thing.

Frank doesn’t seem to mind either, as far as Jim can tell.

            The problem is that somewhere around midnight, he runs out of things to do. The sun doesn’t go down until late, last light lingering well through nine o’clock, and even then Hikaru can usually still run around for a few hours, practicing fencing in the yellow circle of the pump house light, or throwing rocks at Uhura’s window until she swears at them in some obscure language that will give Jim something new to look up the next day. Christine and Jan are allowed out till ten, and with little Pavel from down the road, that’s enough for a few rounds of capture the flag or freeze tag or seeing if he can catch one of the girls and kiss her without them both getting caught by whoever’s _it_. But when he walks Hikaru regretfully home at quarter till twelve (seriously, that boy’s father? scary as hell), Jim finds himself at a loss. He can’t go home- Frank won’t pass out till at least two, but the only other person whose parents are not interested in their late-night whereabouts is Jimmy-Lynn Smith, and she’s too desperate even for his tastes.

            So he wanders. Solitude does not really suit Jim- it’s not that he’s lonely, per se, or even unhappy with his own company. He is just by nature a social being, and without someone to include in his streaming monologue, he feels echo-y and unmoored. He likes to try to think at Spock, squinting his eyes and straining his face in an exerted attempt to somehow project his thoughts beyond the confines of his own rattling skull, but then he remembers exactly how large a light-year is, and just how many of them there are between him and his erstwhile best friend at the moment, and he hangs his head as he shuffles barefoot down the dirt road.

            It’s some night in early July, later than the annual holiday, but before Iowa has truly hit the it’s-so-hot-please-kill-me-now end of the month, when Jim’s nightly wanderings take him further into the edges of civilization than usual, and he fetches up at the edge of the woods behind Lola’s, the dive bar at the far end of town.

 In retrospect, he’s amazed it took him this long.

            He can hear the music thumping inside, and see the sweaty-shirted bouncer leaning against the frame of the open door. Tiki torches protrude haphazardly from the grassy clearing that abuts the darkened gloom of the woods, clutching the ground unevenly. Smoke and shouts roll out in waves from the interior, but it’s in the gravel parking lot that Jim first lays eyes on some kids he knows. They’re all older, these boys, though none old enough to be inside the building itself, and they are holding forth raucously from the back of someone’s battered pick-up. Giotto and Olsen are wasted already, and shoving at each other in somewhat jest, somewhat seriousness, slipping and sliding in the loose gravel as they stagger back and forth in puerile displays of dominance. Riley and the exchange student two grades up, Scott, are trading ludicrous tales of hot girls and souped-up rides, their voices pushing through the humid night air. It’s the oldest one, the silent one, the truck’s owner, though, who catches sight of Jim’s filthy white t-shirt glowing faintly at the shadow’s edge. He raises a hand, the one not wrapped around the neck of a rather large and largely empty glass bottle, and beckons imperiously.

            Jim knows Leonard McCoy, or at least has met him- McCoy was in Sam’s grade, and used to come over to the house in the fall sometimes to go hunting with him. Sam always said he was the best to go hunting with, because he had actually taken the trouble to learn the anatomy of the critters he shot so that the meat was still worth eating. He wouldn’t leave the animal in misery with a poor aim, or rupture the intestines during the disemboweling. He didn’t mind the stench of boiling a turkey to loosen the feathers, and he kept his knives razor sharp so as not to spoil the pelt. He also had a hell of a good family recipe for venison jerky.

            Jim hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and saunters over to the side of the pick-up bed. He’s nervous, well aware that he is not-yet-thirteen and scrawny, but damned if he’s going to let them know he cares. He comes wordlessly to a stop, rocking back on his heels and favoring McCoy with a lazy and only slightly insolent grin.

            Riley notices him and pauses in his narrative involving a minimum of three Orion dancing girls and at least one illegally obtained flitter to appraise the situation. He focuses blearily on Jim’s face, pale and moon-round in the dim glow of the bar lights. “Hey, it’s that little blond kid, th’ one who hangs around with that nerdy alien.” He whoops, and slaps his knee, jostling the keystone clutched in his other sweaty hand. “Hey, kid, where’s your pointy-eared fuck-buddy? Did he ditch you for someone with enough money for a calculator?” He guffaws loudly at his own wit, holding out a fist for Scott to tap.

            Jim ignores him, gaze locked on McCoy. He’s no fool- Riley is a bit player, and Kirk’s acceptance hinges on the pack leader, who has yet to weigh in. McCoy’s eyes are invisible in the dark, his back to the streetlight and his irises hooded in the shadow of his sockets. Jim can feel his stare raking him over. He breathes slowly, his smile affixed to his teeth with the adherence of sheer determination. Apparently he passes muster, because McCoy wordlessly reaches out a lanky arm, proffering the glass bottle to Jim.

Somehow Jim knows instinctively that now is not the time to admit that he’s only ever snuck beer, and cheap beer at that. He takes the bottle from McCoy’s outstretched hand, clamps his lips around the sticky mouth, tips his head back, and swallows. He takes two long pulls, letting his lips pop wetly off the glass after the second, and hands it back to McCoy, whose eyebrow has gone up in surprise. Jim does not shudder- the taste is foul, pungent and sharp and fiery in his nostrils; but it burns down his throat like heaven, and the heat that pools in his belly when the whisky finally settles makes him feel better than anything has since Spock left.

            He hooks an armpit over the side of the truck bed, leans his hip into the wheel well, and smiles.

 

 _  
2244 fall  
_

            Summer passes in a haze for Jim, late night fading into early morning without remark. He spends every night with the guys, drinking and fighting till dawn breaks on the horizon and he stumbles home. He mostly makes it at least to the barn before he passes out, and he only throws up twice before he learns how to pace himself well enough that he forgets everything, but keeps his pants clean. At some point someone passes him a joint, and when he holds the mellow smoke in his lungs and feels the universe spinning around him, he decides this is the best he’s ever felt. Booze makes him feel loose and dangerous, ready to fuck with anyone or anything, but pot, pot makes him feel blissful and comfortable in his own skin, connected to the stars and breathing with the universe.

            He would have missed the first day of school, but Spock, for some unfathomable reason, shows up an hour before they’re supposed to leave. Spock barges into his room, takes one look at him lying bare-ass to the sun on his crumpled sheets, and frog marches him into the shower.

            “This is unacceptable, Jim” Spock hisses as he turns the tap to hot and pushes Jim none-too-gently under the spray. “I only leave for three months, _three months_ , and you devolve into a state that is sub-human”. Spock’s voice is tight, and his grip on the shampoo bottle that he shoves past the shower curtain makes the plastic bend alarmingly. “Wash your hair. Twice.” Jim is disinclined to argue.

            When he steps out of the shower, there is a clean towel waiting for him on the sink. Spock is gone- he had heard the bathroom door slam hard enough to rattle, but hadn’t thought much about it. Now, though, with some of the steam having lessened the grip of his hangover, he begins to feel a bit of trepidation curling in the bottom of his spine. For Spock to show this much emotion so immediately after his return from Vulcan is unprecedented- it usually takes him at least a week to unbend enough to raise his voice at anyone, and at least another two before he will quirk that not-smile at Jim when they’re alone. If Spock is slamming doors the day after he’s come back, well…

            Jim opens the door to his room, towel wrapped around his waist, hair sticking in damp quills all over his head. His bed has been stripped, the sheets adorning the top of what is a clearly a freshly piled mountain of laundry, which seems to comprise every piece of clothing he owns.

Spock turns, faces him, shoulders tense.

“Have you no clean clothing?”

Jim shrugs. He doesn’t honestly know. He’s not sure when the last time he did laundry was. Hasn’t seemed to matter much, since he’s been spending most of his time with the guys. Guys don’t mind the smell the way girls do, and dirt doesn’t show in the dark.

            Spock’s eyes narrow. He stalks past Jim, returning after a minute and some distinct rustling from the other room with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that must have come from Sam’s old dresser. Spock shoves them at Jim.

“Get. Dressed.”

            Jim considers protesting that they won’t fit, but then he does the math, realizes how long Sam’s been gone, and thinks they probably actually will. He also decides against mentioning that he doesn’t think he has clean underwear, either, and settles for just dropping the towel and shoving his legs into the jeans.

 

            It’s late that night, when Spock has come over after dinner with his parents, when they are on the fifth load of Spock-mandated laundry and beginning to see floor in his room again, that Spock finds his stash. Admittedly, he hadn’t really bothered to hide it- Frank wouldn’t care, and his mom’s sure not going to be just “dropping in” any time soon, and fuck, he hadn’t really expected that Spock would waltz in and rearrange his whole life like this, though really, maybe he should have.

“Drugs, Jim?” Spock’s voice never wavers, and Jim takes a moment to appreciate that Spock is in fact at his scariest when he’s at his most flat affect. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Why?”

“Spock, geez, I dunno, just…” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes. “Just… gimme a break, yeah?”

Spock’s eyebrow twitches infinitesimally, gallons of disapproval evident in that dark gaze, and finally Jim’s had it.

“Fuck, Spock, why the hell not? What the bloody hell did you _expect_ me to do all summer, anyway?” Jim waves his arms, his eyes flashing in frustration, a line of sweat trickling down his temple in the heat of his upstairs room. “I’m not some fucking computer like you are, Spock, I just… I just wanted to have a good time for once!”

            He knows the last one was a low blow, and feels guilty for it as soon as it leaves his lips. Spock doesn’t even bat an eye, just wordlessly holds out the sad little baggie. Jim sighs, and takes it. He pries himself off the floor, skin sticking to the freshly swept wood, and goes into the bathroom. A moment’s hesitation, and then he flushes it. He supposes he can always get more if it turns out he needs it. But really, with Spock back, he’s starting to feel better already.

 

 _  
2245 winter  
_

            The first time he gives a blow job, he finds himself wishing it were Spock. At least he knows Spock washes thoroughly. It’s late winter-the gravel is painful and cold beneath his skinny knees, and it’s all he can do to not roll his eyes at the noises coming out of Gary’s mouth. It’s not like he particularly wants to be doing this, and so it’s not like he’s actually putting any effort into it, but by the sounds coming out of this dumb shit’s mouth, you’d think he was the fucking prom queen of cocksucking.

            It’s over when it’s over, and he spits the foul taste out of his mouth onto the dirt, digging a piece of lint covered gum out of his pocket and chewing it enthusiastically. Gary zips his pants, and nods approvingly, and Jim knows he’s good to hang out with the guys whenever he wants for the next few weeks. McCoy is gone off to college now, and he had never really gotten to know any of the other guys, so when Mitchell assumed the role of alpha male, Jim had pretty quickly figured out what was required of him if he still wanted pack rights.

            He doesn’t actually spend that much time with them- he’d still rather be with Spock, really, but Spock’s away every so often these days, at this chess tournament or that scholarship meeting, and Jim gets lonely quick. He doesn’t really drink or smoke much during the week, because he knows Spock doesn’t like it, and he still somehow cares what Spock thinks, but well, when Spock’s gone… he likes to keep his options open.

            He wipes the last of Mitchell’s jizz off his chin and hops on his bike to ride home, the cold air numbing his face and body to perfection.

 

            Spock’s already in his room when he gets there, sitting straight backed at Jim’s desk like he belongs there, waiting. Jim glances at him once, then turns into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, once, twice, three times. Washes his hands, combs his hair, brushes his teeth again. Finally he goes back into his room, crosses his arms, waits.

            Spock looks him over. Jim can feel his gaze linger on the dirt embedded in the knees of his jeans, sees his nostrils flare ever so slightly, then watches the faintest of expressions chase like clouds across Spock’s face. Curiosity, alarm, anger.

            Spock unfolds from the chair, moving slowly and deliberately. It’s times like this that Jim remembers Spock’s half an alien. No full human could move with this predatory grace.

“Jim”, Spock’s voice is soft, gently querying, only the faintest hint of steel blade beneath. “What have you been doing?”

            It’s a split-second decision, but Jim is worn out, and his knees ache, and he is just so tired of Spock’s endless questions, his eye-twitch of disapproval. He snaps his chin up, feels that charming grin spread itself across his face. He drops his hips and slinks, one foot in front of the other, running a hand down his hip as he shortens the distance between them.

“’m not gonna tell you, Spock.”

He can see the confusion in the other boy’s eyes as he reaches out, places his hands lightly on the curve of his friend’s waist. “but.. if you really wanna know,” he tips his chin down to gaze at Spock through his lashes, “ I’d be happy to show you.”

He can see the understanding beginning to dawn on Spock’s face, and drags himself lingeringly along his friend’s body as he sinks to his knees, fingers reaching for the black button of Spock’s slacks.

“No.”

            Jim ignores him, pops the button free, and licks his lips. He hears a quick indrawn breath, then is hauled abruptly to his feet, Spock’s hands like hot vises on his arms.  He always forgets this; that Spock could break him if he wanted to, that for all the fighting Jim’s done, Spock could bat him away like a fly. His eyes widen unconsciously, and he slides one hand across the heated expanse of skin in front of him to hook a finger in the elastic of Spock’s briefs. There is a noise that is something like a growl, and he is unceremoniously dropped onto the floor a foot away, staggering in surprise. Spock’s face is furious, his fists are flexing just in front of him, as though resisting a blow.

“ _Jim, I said **no**_.”

            He gets it, suddenly. How could he be so stupid? Of course Spock doesn’t want him. He’s nothing but a pretty little slut, anyway, dirty and smelling of fucking Gary Mitchell’s leavings, and he had the gall to come in here and put his contaminated hands on Spock, Spock who is clean and smart and upright. What the hell was he thinking? He pulls back and turns to leave, but something must show on his face before the sneer settles into place, because suddenly his chin is caught between iron fingers and he is hauled around to find Spock’s face inches from his own.

            “Jim” Spock’s fingers are bruising, his eyes liquid and fearsome, “you are my best friend. I find your current behavior alarming, and insulting to the nature of our relationship.” He pauses, and Jim feels his belly hollow in fear. “If you desire us to pursue a more physical acquaintance, we shall discuss it. But Jim…” Spock looks away, takes a breath, then looks back with burning eyes. “ _Not like this_.”

 

 _  
2245 spring  
_

 

The expression on his face must be mutinous, because Spock’s lower lip tightens just a little in the way that it does when he’s getting ready to argue.

“You’re _what_?”

“I am leaving early tomorrow morning. To attend a workshop on the possibilities of eventual trans-warp beaming. I will return from there to Vulcan, and will not be coming back to Earth again until August.”

Jim’s mouth must be open to his chest, he thinks, because he could not possibly be more shocked and appalled.

Maybe this is just a nightmare. Spock wouldn’t really leave before the end of term to go away for four and a half months, right?

Right?

“You’re **_what_**??”

Spock’s mouth tightens further, and Jim can feel the breath hitch in his chest. He’s not sure when he stood up, but he’s moving forward, stepping toward Spock with his hands in fists.

“There is nothing wrong with your ears, Jim.”

“ _Fuck_ my ears. There’s something wrong with _you_. What the hell, man?” He’s toe to toe with Spock now, breathing hard, eyes wide. His pulse is racing and he knows that toothy smile is starting to spread across his mouth. He brings his hands up and shoves at Spock’s chest hard. “You’re… you’re just going to fucking… _leave_ me here?” He ignores the way his voice cracks on the last phrase to push at Spock again, hard.

Spock doesn’t move, and somehow that makes Jim snap.

“Fine. _Leave_. See if I _fucking_ care!” He’s beating on Spock’s chest now, his fists falling on immobile flesh without eliciting so much as a twitch. “I don’t! I don’t care! And neither do you!” He gasps, blood humming in his ears. “You never… _fucking_ … cared!”

He turns his back, but doesn’t make a full step before he is slammed against the wall, his skull cracking painfully against the plaster as his body is engulfed in heat.

“Do not” he shivers, Spock is growling now, “Do. Not. Trivialize what I feel for you.” Spock shakes him, hard, and Jim moans. “You know nothing. _Nothing_. About what I feel.”

He can barely breathe, but he can’t accept words, words are meaningless, vapid syllables of intent.

“Show me.”

There is a growl in his ear, then heated fingertips glue themselves to his face and he is thrown into the meld, spiraling out of control in a maelstrom of heat and lightning.

Spock is clutching at him, expression unguarded and fierce, and Jim can feel him, can feel the anger and lust and possessiveness radiating off him. He knows his shock is broadcasting, but he can’t help it, can only clutch back where his hands are twisted in Spock’s shirt.

Everywhere they touch blue sparks are fizzing, whether from him or from Spock, he’s not sure, but it makes him curious, so he leans in, pressing chest to chest and looking down to see the blue lightning dance between their sternums. He’s caught off guard by the press of Spock’s mouth on his, but Spock’s lips are warm and insistent, and he moves his mouth experimentally, tipping his head and sliding a hand up to press into the curve of Spock’s neck.

The rumble in Spock’s chest makes him feel funny, buzzed, like he’s had too much too drink, so he slides his tongue into Spock’s mouth to distract himself, licking past his lips to touch his tongue tip, tugging gently in invitation. He can feel past the meld; the dig of the wall into his shoulder blades, his arms, where Spock grips them, which will surely be bruised tomorrow. The heat of Spock’s hardness rubbing against his own as he presses forward, placing as much of himself in contact with Jim as he possibly can.

Spock is biting his bottom lip, and Jim quivers, lost in the sensation sweeping through him as he grasps Spock’s hips in his hands.

“Jim. Listen to me.” Spock does something with his hand down Jim’s back, and it’s all he can do to gasp out an “ok?”

“Jim. I have been worried about you. You…” Jim smiles as he slides a hand around the tip of Spock’s ear, and hears the catch and pause in Spock’s throaty whisper.  “You have not been taking care of yourself. Do not think that I haven’t noticed.”

Jim floods with shame, begins to struggle to pull away, ducking his head down.

“No.” Spock’s fingers are iron on his chin, tipping his head to the side as he burns imprints of his mouth down the side of Jim’s neck. “Listen. While I am gone…” Jim squirms again, his strength useless in the face of Spock’s firm hand in the small of his back. “While I am gone, You. Will. Take care of yourself.” He pulls Jim’s head around, forcing him to meet his eyes.

Jim is lost. In the meld he can see everything in Spock’s gaze, the affection, the concern, the sheer determination that underlies every piece of Spock’s world. He nods, closing his eyes and pressing his mouth against Spock’s, letting his sincerity wash through them both. Spock wraps an arm around his waist, pushing into his open mouth, dragging his teeth across Jim’s lips and sliding a hot hand under the back of his shirt. Jim turns his head to catch an elusive breath, and is thrown out of the meld abruptly, his body shaking as Spock pulls away.

“…Spock?” He can’t quite help the way his hands reach out, and the anguish on Spock’s face is, for once, unmistakable.

“My parents are waiting in the car.” He stretches out a finger, stroking the length of Jim’s cheek, watching as he turns instinctively into the touch, biting his lip as he pulls away.

“Jim…" his eyes are wider and darker than Jim has ever seen them, black holes in his strangely lovely face. "Don’t forget me.”

The edge of his hand catchesat the collar of Jim’s shirt, and then he isgone, his footsteps disappearing down the stairs in a hurry. The bang of the front door, and the sound of a vehicle pulling away.

Jim slumps helplessly against the wall, sliding down in slow motion to bang his skinny knees against the hard wood of the floor.

 __

 _[Offend in Every Way](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxblmM65vWg) _

__

_I'm patient of this plan  
as humble as I can  
I'll wait another day  
before I turn away  
but know this much is true  
no matter what I do  
offend in every way  
I don't know what to say_

 _I'm coming through the door  
but they're expecting more  
of an interesting man  
sometimes I think I can  
but how much can I fake  
I'll speak until I break  
with every word I say  
offend in every way_

 _You tell me to relax  
and listen to these facts  
that everyone's my friend  
and will be till the end  
but know this much is true  
no matter what I do  
no matter what I say  
offend in every way _

 


	9. You Don't Know What Love Is (you just do what you're told)

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Nine**_  
 **Title:** You Don't Know What Love Is (you just do what you're told)  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** hard  R for language, underage sexual acts  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 5,025  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst, fluff  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:** language for this part, slight violence, implied drug use and underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.  
 **Beta** : thanks to [](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**medea_fic**](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/) for pinch-hitting for me. :)

 

* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.

(approx. ages for this bit- 13/14 and 15/16)

 

 

 _Summer 2245_

 

He can hear the house from nearly a mile a way, but then, his hearing is exceptional compared to that of humans.  Nonetheless, even a human could hear it from a two-block radius, he thinks, and he wishes momentarily for his earplugs before he pushes past the smokers in the driveway and strides in the back door, caught up immediately in the mob of moving, yelling, pushing revelers.

 

It’s a marker of the level of intoxication reached by most of the attendees that a scowling Vulcan attracts little attention, Spock thinks, but he passes the thought by, intently scanning the room for any sign of Jim. There are people on the couch, people on the floor, people in the kitchen, people swirling and drinking and kissing. People everywhere, but no sign of the one person he’s looking for.

 

A passing blond grabs his ass, and he catches her wrist in his fingers, only just remembering to lessen his grip before he does real damage. Her pupils are artificially huge behind her false lashes, and she shivers at his touch before sliding away down the hallway. The overpowering sound and scents of the place have his head reeling; the thumping bass and the shouting voices combined with the smells of sweat and perfume and sickly sweet booze form a pungent irritant to his delicate ear canals and sinuses.

 

He’s been home for three days now, and seen no sign of Jim. He’d let it go for two days, but his worry mounted, as well as his loneliness, and besides, tomorrow is the first day of school, and Spock would be willing to put money on the fact that Jim will have to be forced into the building. He doesn’t gamble, but it would not be gambling, as there is no risk of him losing the bet.

 

He forces himself to concentrate, to pull in, to disregard the commotion surrounding him, the claustrophobic press of humans against his body, and focus instead on the sound of that voice.

 

Nothing.

 

A systematic search it is, then.

 

He has it on good authority that Jim is here somewhere; Nyota had let it slip when he commed her that this was going to be the “mother of all end-of-summer parties”, and he knows enough about Jim’s life away from him to know the siren call that particular phrase would have. He had stopped by the Kirk house on the way, just to be sure, but Frank had only said “I thought he was with you, you pointy-eared fuck”, which led Spock to assume that Jim had not been home in some time.

 

There’s a hallway branching into rooms that stretches off to his left; empty spaces masked with thin particle-board doors. It is the logical place to begin his search. He can identify the noises emitting from behind them; he may be virgin, but he’s no fool. Right now, though, he’s too far gone into _really pissed_ to blush.

 

The first door he opens yields nothing more than a bunch of laughing idiots clustered around a large purple bong, a cloud of smoke hanging three feet from the ceiling, and shouts of “ _fuck_ , man, shut the door!”

 

The second door reveals mostly darkness, but also a writhing knot of bodies, none of which are Jim’s.

 

It’s the third door that gives him what he wants; Jim’s golden head gleaming in the light from the ceiling fixture, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

 

What Spock _doesn’t_ want is the older boy whose cock is filling Jim’s mouth, and the second older boy with his hands halfway down the back of Jim’s jeans.

 

There’s a rushing in his ears that has nothing to do with the sound in the building, and his vision narrows to lock on Jim’s face, which works its way impressively through shock, horror, joy, and fear in the very brief time it takes for Spock to stride forward and pull him off his knees. They’re halfway out the door before either of the boys can even react, Spock dragging Jim along as his feet scrabble uselessly at the floor, as one of the boys starts to shout in the background.

 

Spock doesn’t even hear him.

 

Jim struggles unconvincingly, though his attempts grow stronger as he realizes that Spock is not even anywhere close to letting him go. Spock drags him out through the party and down the street, only resisting the urge to throw him against the car by the barest of margins.

 

His control is fragmented, and he can’t honestly say why- it’s some combination of bloodlust for the boys who might dare touch Jim, and regular lust for Jim as he struggles in Spock’s iron grip, and really, it’s anybody’s guess which is stronger.

 

He drops Jim unceremoniously on his feet next to the car, and turns his back to breathe, drawing in air through his nostrils and pushing it out his mouth, desperately trying to ignore the taste of Jim’s pheromones on the night air.

 

“What. The ever-living. _Fuck_.”

 

Jim’s voice is high and tight, and Spock turns to see him rubbing at his upper arm. The prints of Spock’s fingers are already visible, painfully red against the milky skin.

 

“What. The goddamned _hell_. Do you think you’re doing?”

 

Jim steps forward, his face drawn in rage, and thumps the palms of his hands into Spock’s chest. Spock catches his wrists on instinct, forcing himself to relax his grip at the squeak Jim makes as his bones twist in Spock’s grip.

 

“You will want to allow me a moment before you touch me again.”

 

He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, gritting out the words in a dangerous monotone. He forces himself to release his hold, watching as Jim stumbles back against the hood of the car. Jim’s eyes are dilated more than the dim street-lamp accounts for, and he rubs his hands unconsciously across the cool metal with an inamorato’s touch, his mouth sliding open in pleasure. Spock can feel the crawl all over his skin from the telepathic contact with whatever cocktail of substances it is that Jim’s ingested, and it’s that more than anything that settles him, allowing him enough chest space to fill his lungs and sliding the red tinge away from his eyes.

 

“Jim. What were those _boys_ ” he spits the word, “doing to you?”

 

Jim laughs once, hard and short, crossing his legs at the ankles to display the bulge behind the line of his unzipped jeans.

 

“Fuck, Spock. What did it _look_ like they were doing to me?” His expression is furious, even as his hands begin to rub across his thighs, desperately seeking something to touch. “What do you _think_ they were doing to me?”

 

“You would…” Spock hears his voice crack, pauses for a gasping second, “…you would allow them to do such a thing?”

 

Jim has lost nothing of his skill in eye-rolling during Spock’s absence, and he demonstrates his proficiency now, leaning back on the car in a gesture that slides his shirt up just enough to let the streetlight warm the skin of his belly.

 

“Well, _shit_ , Spock. Did it look like I was saying _no_?”

 

Spock’s fists are clenching involuntarily, and he thinks that grinding noise is probably his teeth. Jim looks at him suddenly, seeming to see him for the first time tonight. He pushes himself up, swaying deliberately toward Spock, placing a hand on his hip in a horrible affectation.

 

“Why, Spock. Are you jealous?” He saunters closer, reaching out to slide his fingers teasingly across Spock’s hand. “Did you wish it was you? You, with your hands sliding into my pants? Or…” he pauses, considering. “Or did you wish it was you with your cock in my mouth?” He tips his head and runs his tongue across his chapped lips, and Spock is suddenly pressing him hard against the bumper.

 

“That is…” he shudders, spinning with a depth of rage he’s never known before, “… that is _unfair_ , Jim. I have never… _never_ … made any secret… of my regard for you.”

 

“No?” Jim sneers at him, eyes blanked of all feeling. “You _lie_ , Spock. You’re just like everyone else. You come, and you go. And when you’re around, that’s _great_ , and we’re _friends_ , and then you _leave_ again, and _I_ do what _I_ want.” He rocks his hips up, forcing a gasp from Spock as Jim shoves his unzipped groin against him.

 

“Come on, Spock. You know you want it.” His voice is a mocking singsong, winding into the back of Spock’s brain.

 

He pulls loose of Spock’s shaken grip and turns, splaying himself over the hood of the car and grasping Spock’s hand in his to shove past the band of his jeans onto his bare skin.

 

“It’s gonna be someone, Spock. May as well be you.”

 

Jim shoves his ass against Spock’s swollen flesh, and Spock can hear the metal of the car’s hood pucker as he digs his free hand into it before he manages to shove himself back and away from Jim. His heart is thudding in his side so fast that he wonders briefly if this is what cardiac arrest feels like, the fluttering of mad wings just prior to a crash.

 

“No”, he manages, and he couldn’t say at this point what language he’s speaking anymore, but it’s irrelevant, really. “ _No_ , Jim. You are… I will not… take advantage.”

 

Jim’s dilated eyes blink once in surprise, then his face closes down. He zips himself up viciously, dragging his shirt down to his waistband.

 

“Always an excuse with you, isn’t it? Why don’t you just say it? You don’t _want_ me. Just like everyone else, Spock. You don’t want me.” He spits onto the asphalt at Spock’s feet, and Spock has never seen blue eyes burn this cold.

 

“You worry I’ll forget you, Spock? I _wish_ I could forget you. I wish I could erase you from my _fucking_ mind.”

 

 

 _Fall 2245_

 

Jim’s been mostly at school this first month, but they haven’t spoken any more than absolutely necessary. By the time Spock has unbent enough to think that he might be able to consider apologizing, it’s been so long that he considers it certain that he would not be welcome.

 

Jim comes to class, when he comes, smelling of cigarettes and booze, but he never actually gets caught, so there’s nothing the teachers can do. He’s been gone these past few days, but Spock saw him tooling around town on his hoverbike yesterday evening, so he’s not quite as worried as he might otherwise be.

 

Of course, worry for Jim is his basic default frame of mind these days, so. It is, perhaps, somewhat irrelevant.

 

He’s walking home when the hoverbike pulls up next to him. There’s a fine sheen of dirt on his shoes, he notes, kicked up by the tires as Jim pulls the bike into a skid in front of him. The bike is across his path; if he wants to continue on his current trajectory, he’ll have to go around.

 

He waits.

 

“Get on.”

 

There’s a moment in which he could ask questions, or refuse, he supposes, but really, there’s no other option, so he mounts the back of the bike.

 

Jim waits just long enough for Spock to secure his arms low around his waist before he kicks it into fourth gear, the bike leaping ahead with a burst that pulls Spock clutching against Jim’s back, feeling the rumble of laughter rolling through the muscles of Jim’s stomach.

 

\--

 

It takes several hours, but Spock doesn’t mind. He’s got his arms around Jim, feeling the aching familiarity of the push/pull/burn of Jim’s energy under his skin. It’s been long, too long, he thinks, and though he remembers why it’s been such a length of time, he finds he doesn’t understand it, not really. There’s something unavoidable about Jim’s presence against him, something utterly involuntary in the way his chest is made to fit around Jim’s back, something completely inescapable that flicks at the edges of his mind when he gives in and lays his face between Jim’s shoulder blades.

 

It’s nearly dark when they get there, the lights of the Arch rising high above the sluggish darkness of the mighty Mississippi as they pull into the lane to cross the bridge. The reflections in the water wink and flicker as they putter over the span, and Spock feels punchdrunk with the prolonged contact, content to simply exist and allow the evening to unfold in whatever way Jim has pre-ordained.

 

They go first for food; pizza and beer in a bar by the water, too loud for talking with the game on the holos and the cheering of the patrons, so they don’t say a word. They eat, and they drink, and Jim is pressed into Spock’s side like a tongue in a groove, only moving to go take a piss before they leave.

 

They end up down at the water’s edge, walking and walking in the heavy humid dark, fetching up eventually at a park where an old-style band  plays “Waltzing Matilda” to the percussive splash of waves on the rocks.

 

Spock’s got Jim turned before he registers it, pulling their bodies flush together and taking Jim’s hand, moving their feet in a step that has Jim’s face opening in a laugh even as he moves willingly along. Spock still doesn’t know what’s happening, not really; why they’re here, what Jim’s doing, but he doesn’t care, not at all, not right now.

 

“Waltzing, Spock? Really? I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

 

Spock doesn’t bother to answer, continuing the rhythmic motions as Jim’s laugh quiets and he tucks his head into Spock’s chest, pressing the hard curve of his skull into the underside of Spock’s chin.

 

The music ends after a space of time, and their feet still as the sounds of the musicians packing up echo down from the stage. Jim looks at him with half a question in his eyes, then comes to a decision, pulling Spock along by the hand.

 

It’s a several block walk back to the hoverbike, and then just a moment’s ride before they’re pulling into a rather drab motel not far from the casino boats. Jim parks the bike, setting his own extremely complex security system, and goes inside to pay, leaving Spock to watch through the window as Jim produces cash and a fake ID, taking the room key from the sweaty hand of the bored night clerk before coming back out to stand with his hands in his pockets in front of Spock.

 

It’s the first time in what seems like months that Spock’s seen anything on Jim’s face other than arrogance or anger, so he leans forward and kisses the fear from Jim’s mouth, taking it as blame onto his own, licking the trepidation from the corners of his lips as he slides the room key from Jim’s trembling hand.

 

The door opens easily onto a small room, and Spock forces the thoughts about the exact nature of the questionable hygenie of the bedcovers from his mind, choosing to lose himself instead in the texture of Jim’s tongue against his, the feel of callused fingers sliding into his own.

 

“Jim…” he manages to tear his mouth away for a moment, pulling Jim’s t-shirt up and over his head. “Jim… I’m _sorry_. I… I don’t care about any _one_ else, or any _thing_ else, or…” he tries to collect himself, only to drown in the look in those eyes. “Jim… I just… I want you. Just you. _Just you_.”

 

He leans in to press his mouth to the space beneath Jim’s jawline, taking Jim’s chin in his hand and turning it, forcing himself to let go long enough for Jim to tug his shirt off over his head.

 

Jim’s hands are cool on Spock’s overheated skin, tracing linguistic patterns, mathematical symbols, greek and equation and line on the delicate whorl of his flesh.

“Spock, _goddammit_.” Jim’s breath is a laugh, and then a sigh as Spock finds Jim’s button and frees his waist from the confines of denim, his hands moving with the fervor of a saint across the planes of Spock’s chest. “Why have you resisted so hard? How could you not _know_?” He strips Spock naked with a flick of his wrist, shedding his own underwear with a casual haste that has Spock pressing him down to the bed, their bare skin pushing heated and slick against each other. “We, _this_ …” He gestures vaguely at their exposed forms, stuttering a gasp as Spock licks down his stomach. “We’re inevitable, Spock. It was always going to end this way. It’s the only way it _could_ ever be for us.”

 

The last of his sentence is cut off with a moan as Spock crawls up his body, taking them both in hand with a decisive pull. He doesn’t expect the strength of his response and is nearly derailed, but he manages to get his other hand up to Jim’s face, touching his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth with reverent fingers before sliding his outstretched digits into the meld position.

 

There’s a moment when Jim’s blue blue eyes lock with his, and then they’re gone, spiraling into a mental oblivion in a sparking swan dive of electricity, their bodies clutching and stilling in a spasm of sensate overload.

 

 

 _Winter 2246_

 

 

The dinner is stiff and formal, and Spock frankly hasn’t been this bored in months. Not since the scholarship reception dinner on Vulcan in August, when he actually fell asleep during the post-dinner speeches and was elbowed sharply by the girl seated on his right.

 

Perhaps it’s his human half, or perhaps his innate personality, but he has always felt out of his depth and beyond his patience when forced to endure the sorts of dry soliloquies that T’Pring’s father seems to favor. He can’t tell what his parents think; his father would never betray so much as an impatient sigh, and his mother has long since mastered the pleasantly smiling diplomat’s face. He studies her for a moment in quiet amusement. For all he knows, she’s busy solving last week’s crossword in her head, but she’s the picture of polite attentiveness.

 

He doesn’t realize that he’s fidgeting, moving the drops of condensation on his water glass back and forth, until his father coughs discreetly.

 

“Perhaps Spock and T’Pring should be excused at this juncture? I am sure that Spock would welcome the opportunity to receive some constructive peer review on his latest mechanical builds.”

 

T’Pring blinks at him balefully, but her father nods a firm assent.  “She is top of her class in electrical transmogrification. I am sure that she will have some useful insights to contribute.” Spock catches his breath. Freedom? At last?

 

T’Pring inclines her head once in acknowledgment, then rises from her seat, a study in graceful efficiency in motion. Spock manages to stand without banging into the table, despite the fact that his left leg is entirely asleep, and makes his way over to her.

 

“Mother. Father. Ambassador Soren.” Spock bows formally, then turns and leaves the room, confident that T’Pring will follow.

 

He makes himself wait until they reach his room and shut the door before allowing a massive sigh of relief to escape, his shoulders slumping with release. T’Pring looks at him blandly, but he can see the miniscule hint of relaxation in her ramrod posture, and knows she’s as pleased as he to have escaped the interminable conversations below.

 

“What is this?” She is circuiting his room curiously, and has laid her hand on the star projector hooked up to his desk module.

 

“It is a light projector. I have programmed it to display points of light upon my ceiling and walls in such a manner that it resembles the night skies of various planets.”

 

She looks intrigued. “May I see?”

 

Spock crosses the room to palm the lights off, and speaks calmly into the sudden darkness. “Display: Starscape  TKSK0829. Accelerated display, 8:0.5.”

 

The room is filled with points of light, their movement slow, but perceptible across the white walls. T’Pring gives a tiny gasp, turning in a slow circle to admire the view.

 

“It is displaying the sky as seen from Vulcan.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“This is… quite well done, Spock. The atmospheric qualities have been accounted for, as well as seasonal variations.” There’s a tiny note of wonder in her voice, and Spock suddenly likes her much better than he did when they met. “It is… very aesthetically pleasing. Do you have more?”

 

Spock smiles to himself, expression safe in the dark, and gives the command for the next display.

 

They are past Vulcan, Tellar, and Risa, and onto Orion when the knock sounds at his window. There’s a second of pause, and then the sound of the window slowly being pushed open. Spock reaches over to hit the lights, the sudden illumination revealing a blinking Jim Kirk with one leg over the sill as he pushes the sash up.

 

“Hey, Spock.” Jim focuses on T’Pring, then Spock. “ Um, Spock? There’s a girl? In your room?” He catches himself as he starts to tumble onto the floor, closing the window behind him and turning his best smile on T’Pring. “Hi, beautiful. What’s shakin’?”

 

Spock does not roll his eyes. “Jim, this is T’Pring. Her father, Ambassador Soren, is having dinner with my parents downstairs. As I informed you last week.”

 

Jim rubs his head sheepishly, still grinning at T’Pring. “Sorry, Spock. I forgot.”

 

T’Pring is looking between the two of them, and if she were human, Spock is sure that her expressions would be running the gamut. She takes one last look, blinks, then folds her hands. “Fascinating.”

 

Jim laughs outright, coming all the way into the room and plopping onto Spock’s bed where he bounces and kicks off his shoes.

 

“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Jim’s voice is deeply amused.

 

“You two are engaged in a sexual relationship.” She looks between them again. “This is most unorthodox, Spock. How is it so?”

 

Spock can feel his ears heating, but he keeps his voice determinedly even. “Humans mature at a younger age than Vulcans. I have myself reached maturity somewhat younger than most Vulcans, due to my hybrid status.” He pauses, looks at Jim who has fallen backwards on the bed and is hooting breathlessly with laughter. “Additionally, Jim and I are exceptionally mentally compatible. It was… logical to proceed with our relationship.”

 

T’Pring doesn’t bat an eye, simply walks over to Jim, staring down at him as he giggles. “Is that the case?” She pokes Jim with a finger, and Spock can tell she’d like a microscope. “You are still unbonded?”

 

“I am.”

 

“You are aware that my father wishes to discuss a potential bonding between us?”

 

Jim has finally stopped giggling and pushed up on his elbows to watch them.

 

“I am aware.” Spock looks at her perfectly lovely and utterly blank face. “Is it something you would wish?”

 

She considers for a moment, clicking her teeth absently with a fingernail. “I will be bonded to Stonn. We are highly compatible, and my father has no logical reason to object.”  She looks over at Jim, with his bright eyes and flushed face. “I can see why you find him engaging. However. I trust you are being careful?”

 

“Careful?”  It’s Jim’s voice with the question, his tone settled to its normal inquisitiveness.

 

“Due to Spock’s unbonded status, it is potentially… dangerous is too strong a word.” She thinks, a long finger pressed to her lips. “His mind is seeking, always looking for the one it will bond to. To engage in mental intimacy with such a mind is to invite potential entanglement.” She gives Spock a measuring glance, seeing more than he thinks he would like her to. “Spock. Be careful.”

 

She holds his gaze for a moment before walking to the door. The sound of their parents’ farewelling is drifting up the stairs, and she pulls the door open to exit.

 

“Live long, and prosper, Spock of Earth.”

 

Spock mirrors her gesture unthinking.

 

“Live long, and prosper, T’Pring.”

 

 

 _Spring 2246_

 

 

“She was right, you know.”

 

Jim lifts his head from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Spock’s chest.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“T’Pring. She was right.” Spock raises his fingers to trace the line of Jim’s cheekbone, watching with his inner eye as the blue sparks arc between Jim’s face and his fingertips. “We are too compatible, Jim.”

 

Jim snorts and licks the inside of Spock’s elbow. “ _Too_ compatible? What the hell does that even mean?” He wriggles further down the bed, biting into the side of Spock’s abdomen, just below his ribs.

 

Spock squirms. “It means what we’re doing is dangerous, Jim. We could… it could be bad.”  He knows it sounds ridiculous, but he can’t come up with the words to explain it when Jim’s got his mouth at the seam of his hip like that. “Jim… what _is_ this, anyway? What are we doing?”

 

Jim raises his head, the sheet tenting down around him as he stares incredulously at Spock. “Well, right now, we’re naked, and I’m about to…”

 

Spock smacks him on the arm, and Jim laughs and laughs, falling to the mattress beside him as Spock tries to keep his mouth from twisting in a smile.

 

“No, Jim, _listen_ to me. T’Pring… she knows, like every Vulcan knows, melding when unbonded is _risky_. It can become… addictive. Ensnaring. Maybe…” He pauses, drags in a breath. “Maybe we should just… stop.”

 

Jim’s hands still on his body, and Spock feels a sinking in the pit of his stomach, but he presses on. “Jim… we’re friends. Maybe… maybe that’s all we should be. I mean…” he gestures nervously, not liking the way that Jim’s face has gone still. “I mean… maybe we should just be _friends_ again.”

 

“ _What_?” The tone in Jim’s voice is deathly cold, and Spock is angry suddenly. He’s been manipulated into this, whatever this is. It’s immaterial whether he went willingly or not; there is no consent in blackmail, not really, and now Jim won’t even hear a word against whatever illogical and unsustainable fantasy it is that he’s got playing in that strung-out mind of his. It _is_ dangerous, and it’s a constant concern to him, but Jim is so content to ignore anything he doesn’t like, to roar past any boundary that doesn’t actively punch him in the face, and he’s dragging Spock along with him, and Spock doesn’t want to go.

 

“You heard me.”

 

“I heard you say something ridiculous. You wanna try that again?”

 

“Perhaps it is because of your inherent self-destructive tendencies that you are so unwilling to listen when I attempt to explain to you that what we are doing is _dangerous_ , Jim, or perhaps it is simply your inferior logic. Either way, _you are failing to hear me_ when I say that we should consider putting a stop to it.”

 

The silence is complete and deadly, and Spock can hear the hiss of breath through his teeth.

 

“Jim… we’re _friends_. Or we were. And friendship is _more_ , more than casual sex and a mental addiction.”

 

Jim is off the bed before Spock can catch his arm, his face contorted with hatred as he stands bare-assed in the moonlight. He grabs his jeans, stabbing a leg into them as Spock rises, crawling to the end of the bed and reaching out a hand.

 

“ _Casual sex and a mental addiction_? That’s what you call this? _Fuck_ you, Spock, I should never have trusted you. Not _ever_.”  There’s wetness on his face, and Spock’s heart twists in his chest, his hand reaching further and further toward Jim. _“Don’t you fucking touch me.”_

 

He’s got both legs in his pants and is heading for the door, and Spock is oh so grateful for the Vulcan speed that lets him grab Jim before he gets there, dragging him back and pinning him to the bed as he struggles, forcing them into the meld even as Jim bites his finger hard.

 

It’s the one place where Jim can’t escape him.

 

Jim in the meld is furious, sparks spitting from every limb as the wind behind him kicks up dust.

 

“ _Let me go_.”

 

“No. Jim, _look_.” Spock points to the line at their feet, where red sand meets golden.

 

Jim looks, the expression on his face moving between rage and confusion.

 

“What am I looking at, Spock?”

 

Spock sinks to his knees, touching the lines of glass that have formed in the sand, crossing the edges from crimson to beige.

 

“You are looking at the visual manifestation of what is happening to our minds. Jim…” he feels desperate. The glass beneath his thumb hums and pulses with energy, pure heat and light. “… we are already entangled. I do not know how far it goes. But already… already our minds seek no other.”

 

Jim stares at him for a long moment before sinking to his knees beside Spock. He reaches a cautious hand to touch the glass, pulling back in surprise at the sensation it provokes.

 

“Spock…” the look on Jim’s face is the most transparent Spock has ever seen, and he feels the lines of glass hardening beneath his fingertips as the look of inchoate longing lingers on the lines of Jim’s cheek. “You would undo this?”

 

“I…” It’s his worst nightmare come true, a test to which he has no answer, a question asked before he’s ready. Jim’s face is already beginning to fold into the familiar lines of pain/rejection/disappointment, so Spock pulls his fingers from Jim’s skin, dropping them from the cocoon of the meld into tangible space, wrapping Jim in his arms instead of his mind. He’s damp and heated and shaking, and Spock presses them as close as matter/space occupation laws will allow.

 

“ _No_ ”, he breathes, and the effect is instantaneous; Jim begins to inhale again, still shaking, and Spock presses his mouth to the edge of Jim’s closed eye.

 

“ _No. I would not_.”

 _[ **"You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)"**  
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLmIlVJYEtw)  
In some respects  
I suspect you've got a respectable side  
When pushed and pulled and pressured  
You seldom run and hide  
But it's for someone elses benefit  
Not for what you wanna do  
Until I realize that you've realized  
I'm gonna say these words to you_

 _You don't know what love is  
You do as you're told  
Just as a child at ten might act  
But you're far too old  
You're not hopeless or helpless  
And I hate to sound cold  
But you don't know what love is...  
You just do as you're told_

 _I can see your man  
Cant help but win  
Any problems that may arise  
But in his mind there can be no sin  
If you never criticize  
You just keep on repeating  
All those empty "I love you's"  
Until you say you deserve better  
I'm gonna lay right into you  
_   
_You don't know what love is  
You just do as you're told  
Just as a child of ten might act  
But you're far too old  
Your not hopeless or helpless  
And I hate to sound cold  
But you don't know what love is  
No you don't know what love is  
No you don't know what love is_

 _You just do as you're told  
You do as you're told  
Yeah _   
  
__


	10. In the Cold, Cold Night

_**We Are Gonna Be Friends: year ten**_  
 **Title:** In the Cold, Cold Night  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** hard  R for language, underage sexual acts  
 **Relationship status:** First Time  
 **Word count:** 3612  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst, fluff  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:** language for this part, **violence, abuse, hate-speech, homophobia, self-harm,** , implied drug use and underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.  
 **Beta** : thanks to [](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**medea_fic**](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/) for pinch-hitting for me. :)

 

* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.

(approx. ages for this bit- 14/15 and 16/17)

 

 

 _Summer 2246_

 

He’s spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly. He’d thought about comming someone; Chrissy, or Gary, or even Hikaru, the goody-two-shoes himself. But he’s just tired. Bored as he was, he still couldn’t muster up the energy to want to see anyone.

 

Anyone here.

 

The creek is low; murky water swirling stagnant in swampy pools, phantom paper clipper ships sailing down the low tide. Every other rustle of a leaf sounds like a murmur; illogical, he knows, but in the end he doesn’t stay long.

 

He makes his way down the creek to the edge of the corn fields, that fast expanse that stretches as far into the distance as he can see. It’s late summer now, and the corn is well over head height, whispering secrets to itself in the hot southwestern breeze. He trails along the edge, one hand out to drag through the stalks as he walks. He could lose himself in there, go deep into the maze and trace the labyrinth. But in the end he doesn’t. There’s no one in there waiting to find him, and finding himself just doesn’t seem worth the energy.

 

Cloud-watching is no better, though he gives it the longest amount of time. It’s easy to lay on his back in the dirt, so he persists. His mind is spinning, circling, following and abandoning a million thoughts a minute, but his body is enervated, heavy with a density he can’t explain or even chalk up to humidity.

 

The clouds are sluggish and few, stubbornly rounded and bland, but he stays until the dark comes creeping, moving the sky from non-descript blue to unremarkable gray, a perfect match for the heated expanse of dirt surrounding him.

 

The mosquitoes finally drive him back to the house, dragging his heels as he approaches silently, slumping up the steps to fall onto the porch swing, digging under the railing for his pack of smokes.

 

The first scar is accidental.

 

His cigarette is stubby, red coals glowing, when his padd pings to inform him of an incoming message. He reads it slowly, smoke twisting out of his nostrils as he exhales. Sets the padd down deliberately on the porch railing, careful that it doesn’t fall. His eyes stare unfocused into the distance.

 

Spock is abandoning him. Again.

 

Yes, he _knows_ that the Andorian conference on the limits of warp-drive physics which took all of June was essential to fulfill the terms of Spock’s Advanced Engineering requirements. Likewise, the invitation to the VSA’s three week intensive on higher mathematics was an un-sought honor, and clearly Spock could not have turned it down. Three Vulcan weeks later, the conference was done and all of July was gone. Then it was a family vacation to New England in August, which Jim is sure was lovely, all picturesque and precious, just like the one-sentence postcards he pins on his wall.

 

Now? Now it is September, and Spock will be presenting a paper at an eight day symposium on Rigel IV concerning the ramifications of the latest molecular fluid dynamics modeling, followed by a jaunt to Seattle to meet with some bigwig from StarFleet’s science department, who is no doubt hell-bent on recruiting him to their ranks, and then a quick trip to Switzerland to observe one of the latest experiments near Genève.

 

Spock thinks he may be home by some time in mid October, barring any further unforeseen obligations.

 

Jim can feel his pulse racing. His skin feels tight, lacquered over his form and dried to stiffness. The blood rushes through his veins, too fast, too thin. He wants to explode, can see his hand shake as it brings the stub of cigarette to his lips.

 

The burn of embers on his arm is like a shot in the chest, adrenalin exploding throughout his system. He pulls the butt away from his skin and flicks it absently into the coffee can at his feet, breath hissing through his teeth. The circle of flesh is angry, reddened, and it hurts like a _bitch_ , but Jim’s head feels clearer than it has in weeks. The pain throbs through the damaged nerve endings, focusing his attention and soothing the frantic need to transcend his own flesh, grounding him unarguably in his own skinny frame.

 

 

 _Fall 2246_

 

 

Jim hasn’t been to school in a good two and a half weeks, or at least that’s his best rough estimate. Because really- why? He still does most of his assignments, if for no other reason than sheer boredom, and besides, they update to his padd automatically, so it’s not like he actually needs to be physically present. But going to class? What’s the point?

 

The barn is warm, even in early November. The sun heats it during the morning, and by the afternoon it’s more than comfortable if you have a jacket. He spends a lot of time out here these days; he’s got a few things he’s working on besides his scooter, though admittedly, getting his rickety old two wheeler going well enough to break the speed limit was a real thrill.

 

Most of his time, though, he spends with his baby.

 

Josephine.

 

Josephine is a 2153 Chevy Bel Air, and she, Jim thinks, is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The story goes that his dad had won her gambling some night, and had used her shamelessly to pick up mom, whom everybody knew had the hots for a well-tuned engine. Jim doesn’t know. All he knows is that when he found her, she wouldn’t even turn over, and now she purrs like a big cat.

 

Or a Vulcan.

 

Dark grey, with sleek lines that stretch from the very back bumper all the way to the tiny round lights at the front. She curls like a wave, arcing to spill under the pressure of wind onto the road. Thank heaven the barn was watertight- there was quite a bit of dry rot, but no rusting to the body. All the fluids had to be drained, and then the engine cleaned, and tuned. Some of the parts had frozen up and had to be replaced. But all of those things can be done. None of the damage is irreparable.

 

It’s late into the afternoon, and the light is fading as he takes one last rub at Josephine’s fender with the old cloth in his hand. The last rays of light are gleaming on her mirrored chrome, and he lets himself relax into a moment of pure bliss before his eyes rise to the door.

 

There is, in the doorway, a figure.

 

Jim squints- the barn door faces west, the setting sun casting the figure in dark relief against the glow of the firey orb. Characteristics are impossible to distinguish, but also unnecessary- it is the utter stillness that gives it away.

 

Jim feels his heart freeze in his chest. The moment holds, stretching infinitely between the space of one heartbeat and another, suspended in the grasp of the honeyed light and endless.

 

“Spock…” he breathes, and the figure detaches itself from the doorframe and walks inevitably toward him.

 

Spock is taller than when Jim last saw him, impeccably pressed and formal. Jim feels suddenly filthy and childish in his flannel jacket and stained jeans, rubbed with engine grease and barn dust. He rubs his hands anxiously on his thighs, once, twice, and then Spock is unexpectedly in front of him, close, and Jim can feel his heat, can smell him, but Spock’s face is still, shuttered, mask-like in its vacancy. Jim can’t breathe, can hear the blood roaring in his ears, see the spots in front of his eyes. He reaches out a hand, snags a finger in Spock’s collar, and it’s then that the Vulcan façade splits and crumbles, emotion washing across the familiar features as he moves suddenly to grasp Jim by the hips and pull him close. Jim doesn’t even remember it happening, but his arms are wound around Spock’s neck and his face is buried in his shoulder, and his name is a ceaseless prayer on Jim’s lips as he whispers unknowingly into Spock’s shirtfront.

 

The first touch of lips is gentle, reassuring. The second is fierce, needy. The third is mindless, primal, and so far beyond conscious thought that Jim is not sure he will ever come down again. Spock’s fingers skitter across the meld points, and Jim thrusts himself even closer, begging through touch for the mindlink they both crave.

 

“Please. _Please_.”

 

It has been too long. The slide of Spock’s mind on his is not a slide so much as a flood, a whirlpool that rips at the currents and eddies of Jim’s consciousness, plunging them both into a vast spiral of cohesion, of communion. Jim can hear his voice cry out as if from a great distance, can feel that they have made it into the back seat of the car, that they are pressed skin to skin, mind to mind.

 

Without warning he is ripped from the vast mental galaxy and slammed into his body, the link shimmering across and through them. Spock’s hands are hot in every place they touch, and Jim feels as though it is only a matter of seconds before his physical self explodes in ecstasy. Desperate, he can’t touch enough, he can’t reach enough, he can’t press himself close enough.

 

 _god, spock, missed you so much. So fucking much. Missed you._

 _Jim…_

 

The world is lost in the catastrophic rupture, the unspeakable rapture of _touch_ and _taste_ and _here_ and _now_ and _(mine)_.

 

Later, as Jim is falling asleep, he clutches his fists in the front of Spock’s shirt, the vinyl of the bench seat cool beneath them. If he could put himself inside Spock and stay there, he would. He pushes his forehead against Spock’s chest, wrapped in Vulcan heat and empathy, and for the first time in months feels himself again.

 

 

 _Winter 2247_

 

 

He can hear them from down the hall, so he goes to sit outside the door, back against the wall to listen. He has no idea if they think they’re being quiet or not, but it really doesn’t matter. He quit caring about being caught eavesdropping years ago.

 

“Goddammit, Winona, I _told_ you, I have no idea where he went!”

 

“How the _fuck_ can you say that to me? I leave you with my kids…”

 

“Yes, that’s right. You _left_ me.”

 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Frank. Man the _fuck_ up. What are you, twelve? Don’t whine at me that I _abandoned_ you. You’re a _grown man_ , and I _entrusted_ you with the care of my children. Now you tell me that not only has my oldest son run away, which I heard from _him_ , not from you, thank you very much, but that you have no idea where he’s even gone? What the _fuck_ is your malfunction?”

 

“ _My_ malfunction? Fuck you, Win. I’m not the one who ditched my kids like some day old trash to go running about the universe. Nuh-uh. You can’t pin _none_ of this on me. Not your run-away kid, and not your delinquent one either.”

 

Jim pulls the lighter out of his pocket, pushes up his sleeve. He can feel the anger burning inside him, turning and pushing and making his heart race. He wants to scream, to punch, but he can’t, he can’t. Nothing he says or does will make any difference, and the push/pull between burning rage and despairing apathy is too much.

 

“My delinquent son?” His mother’s voice is resigned, defeated. “What is Jimmy doing now?”

 

The line of small circles up the inside of his forearm has gotten longer than he realized, but he can’t resist. The pain is as addictive as pills, he knows, but he can’t find it in himself to mind, to think that it’s anything but dumb, really. A coping mechanism, he knows, but so what? It’s his business, no one else’s.

 

“He doesn’t go to school anymore. They’re going to flunk him out of this year.” Frank’s voice almost sounds pleased. “He’s doing drugs, but that’s nothing new. Running around with that Gary Mitchell boy. And that freaky alien kid.”

 

Jim flicks the lighter, holding the button down so that the metal begins to glow. He hadn’t known they were flunking him. The empty hallway roars in his ears. He doesn’t have a smoke on him, so the lighter will have to do.

 

“Is he being _safe_? How the fuck would I know, Win? If he’s sleeping around, the little fucker deserves what he gets.”

 

The flame gusts out, and he upends the lighter onto the thin skin over his veins, pressing the searing metal into his flesh for a count of three, tears welling in his eyes as he hisses out through his teeth.

 

 _There’s_ the release; the rush of endorphins to his brain, the flaming singe of nerves all throughout his arm, the blister rising already as he pulls the lighter away, an angry half moon of pain flaring up at him. He bares his teeth, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

 

“Hang on- thought I heard something. Your little punk’s probably listening at the door again.”

 

He tries to stand, but he’s too light-headed. It slows him down, having to fumble for the walls to get himself upright.

 

The door bursts open, Frank’s face purpling at the sight of him. Jim yanks his sleeve down, sneering for all he’s worth at the face of the man before him.

 

“You little _fucker_.” Frank’s got his arm now, his fingers pressing into the thin muscle of Jim’s bicep. “How long have you been out here?” He gives Jim a shake. “How long?”

 

Jim kicks him in the shin, and Frank snaps, throwing him up against the wall so his head thunks against the plaster. Jim sees lights flicker at the edge of his vision, and fights the nausea rising in his gut.

 

“You piece of _shit_. You know what they told me down at the bar? Do you? He seizes Jim again, pushing his face close. “They said that you’re taking it up the ass from that freaky little fuck of a friend of yours.” He laughs, loud and full. “I told them not even _you_ were stupid enough to let that sorry piece of shit lay his hands on you. Even if you did bend over for some of the boys, you’d draw the line at the goddamn alien.” He laughs again.

 

Jim is flying, his head floaty and strange, and when he doesn’t respond Frank leans in, looking at him closely for the first time.

 

“No…” He breathes incredulously. “ _No_ , you _wouldn’t_ …”

 

Jim looks away.

 

The hand across his face comes before he expects it, pushing his cheek hard into the wall.

 

“You goddamn _filthy_ little shit. You _have_! You have been goddamn _letting_ some freakish in-human thing put his paws all over you? Put his green fucking _dick_ up your ass?” There’s a blow to his ear that drops him to the ground. He curls up, closing his eyes and remembering how Spock beat the bullies, then cleaned him up after. A boot lands in his stomach and he retches, but he hasn’t eaten in a while. There’s not much to cough over.

 

“You… you…” There’s an almost lost note in Frank’s voice. He’s really shocked, Jim realizes through the haze filling his brain. Shocked and genuinely horrified. “You pansy-ass little _bastard_.”

 

Jim hadn’t realized Frank cared, and he laughs helplessly to himself.

 

Frank shoves at him with the toe of his boot, leaning forward to spit down on his head.

 

“I don’t ever fucking want to see your face. You hear me? You stay the _fuck_ out of my way, you cock-sucking little slut.” His voice is high, tight. “I don’t _ever_ want to lay eyes on you again.”

 

Jim stays alert long enough to hear footsteps disappear down the stairs, then lets himself slide into blessed oblivion.

 

 

 _Spring 2247_

 

“Dammit, Spock, I swear you’re cheating!”

 

“Vulcans do not…”

“Cheat, I know, I know. Dammit.”

 

Spock cuts his eyes sideways. Jim is concentrating so hard on manipulating the projection of the little racing car on the screen that his tongue is sticking out the side of his mouth. It is unexpectedly endearing.

 

“It is hardly my fault that Vulcans have superior reflexes and timing which give us a natural advantage.”

 

“Yeah, Vulcans rule, humans drool. But…” and here Jim leans ever closer to the graphic display, before reaching sideways in a lightning fast move to slap at the controller in Spock’s hand, “…humans are better at creative thinking. Yatta!!”

 

Jim turns grinning to Spock as his little car crosses the finish line where the holographic crowd of cartoon characters waves and yells. Spock’s car has crashed into a barrier.

“At cheating.”

 

Spock examines his controller closely. Somehow the battery seems to have become loosened and fallen out when Jim slapped at it, causing a short out in the controller itself and causing his race car to fail. The angle of his eyebrows clearly indicates that he is beginning to suspect sabotage.

 

“Eh, whatever.” Jim’s grin is undiluted. He flops down on his back, arms above his head. “I still won.”

 

“Jim”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Spock fastens a stern look on him, betrayed by a glint of amusement and a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

 

“You will return the battery.”

 

Jim smirks. “Oh, fine, if you insist.” He pulls a hand from behind his head, and holds out his arm palm up, small metal disc easily visible. “Here.”

 

He knows what’s happened the second he sees Spock’s eyebrows descend to form a point over his nose. Jim’s shirtsleeves, which are eternally too short, have ridden up, and the skin which reaches from his wrist up to his elbow is visible. His heart takes a pitfall into his gut, and he snatches his hand back, but he is not fast enough. The heat of a Vulcan grip has immobilized his forearm, and the vast strength which Spock so rarely uses is in full effect. Jim squirms, but it is useless.

 

“Jim.” Spock’s voice is flat, calm, and unyielding. “You will explain to me what has happened to your arm.”

 

The sneer is sliding across his face before he can catch it, his body folding in around his core in defense as he pulls his arm taut in Spock’s unwavering grasp.

 

“Nothing _happened_ to my arm, Spock.”

 

There’s a flash of what looks like pain deep in those loam-dark eyes, but Spock’s expression is implacable, his grip unyielding.

 

“Do not lie, Jim. It is unbecoming.”

 

“Unbecoming? _Unbecoming_?” Jim laughs, a harsh sound in the tense air. “For fuck’s sake, Spock, I’d have thought someone with a brain as big as yours could come up with _something_ better than ‘unbecoming’”. He pulls again, and there’s that look that flashes again in the corners of Spock’s mouth.

 

Jim slumps suddenly to the bed, letting his arm go slack in the circle of Spock’s hand. He knows that look, knows it all too well.

 

Rejection.

 

He can’t do this to Spock, it’s not his fault, not really.  He sighs and looks away.

 

“It’s just… it’s very logical, you know.” He’s not looking, but he can almost hear Spock’s eyebrow rise in skeptical response. “It’s a simple coping mechanism to facilitate the assimilation of environmental stressors. The adrenalin rush provided by selective self-mutilation allows the practitioner to experience a momentary high, a relief from whatever circumstance provokes the behavior.”

 

Spock has unbuttoned the wrist of his sleeve and is rolling it up to his elbow, his fingers and thumb gently caressing the outline of each marked and puckered wound, each digital kiss a questioning benediction.

 

“Surely you have not needed such extensive relief?”

 

Jim can hear the beginnings of self-reproach and guilt in Spock’s voice, and the concavity in his chest where his heart should be warm and pulsing feels just slightly more like a black hole.

 

“I have a compulsive personality.”

 

Spock’s hands have reached his elbow, pushing the flannel out of the way, his fingers warm and gentle in a way that Jim just can’t stand anymore, so he pulls his arm free with a jerk, and Spock lets him. It’s only going to be a minute before Spock thinks to check the other arm, and heaven forbid it occur to him to question why Jim’s only been bed-sharing with the lights out recently, so Jim schools his face into passivity and stands.

 

“I just… I just need a minute, Spock. Some fresh air. Ok? I’ll be right back. Just a minute.”

 

A minute. An hour. A day. His feet are stepping for the door, and Jim can see that Spock knows, knows him and his fight or flight instinct, and is letting him make his break for freedom.

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

He tries to mean it, but it sounds dead even past the rushing in his ears. He can see that Spock doesn’t believe him for a minute, so he grabs the door and wrenches it open, pounding down the stairs and into the chill dark.

 

The night is wide and dark and deep, and as his feet set up a pounding rhythm on the pitch-black road, he tips his head back to view the wheeling stars which skim the edge of oblivion.

 

If only, he thinks. If only he could be swallowed up in that endless abyss, drunk down and transformed by the cold, cold night.

  
 _  
[Cold Cold Night](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAqJez9AjZw)   
_

_  
I saw you standing in the corner  
On the edge of a buring light  
I saw you standing in the corner  
Come to me again in the cold cold night_

 _In the cold cold night_

 _You make me feel a little older  
Like a full grown women might.  
But when you gonna grow colder_

 _Come to me again in the cold cold night  
In the cold cold night_

 _I hear you walkin' by my front door  
I hear the creakin' of the kitchen floor  
I don't care what other people say  
I'm gonna love you anyway_

 _Come to me again in the cold cold night  
In the cold cold night_

 _I can't stand it any longer  
I need the fuel to make my fire bight  
So don't fight it any longer_

 _Come to me again in the cold cold night  
In the cold cold night_

 _And I know that you feel it too  
When my skin turns into glue  
You will know that it's warm inside  
And you'll come run to me_

 _In the cold cold night  
In the cold cold night  
In the cold cold night  
In the cold cold night_   


 


	11. Truth Doesn't Make a Noise

**Title:** Truth Doesn't Make a Noise  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language, sexual acts, somewhat graphic violence  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 4,134  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:**   language for this part, and underage sexual activity.  
Pairing: k/s, no others.

 **Beta** : the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious [ **13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/), object of my logical adoration. also thanks to [**medea_fic**](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/)  for the ongoing cheerleading. also to my lovely husband, who is reading over my shoulder. hi, sweetie. :D

 **A/N Pt. 2** :  many thanks to [](http://lousy-science.livejournal.com/profile)[**lousy_science**](http://lousy-science.livejournal.com/) for letting me borrow her eFleet job for Spock. if y'all haven't read her k/s series that mentions it,[ omg go read it right now](http://zjofierose.livejournal.com/19903.html). also, the followup. [HERE](http://lousy-science.livejournal.com/6856.html).

(approx. ages for this bit- 15/16 and 17/18)

 __

 _Summer 2247_

 

“Explain to me the logic in this decision.”

 

His father’s voice is deathly calm, and Spock folds his hands in carefully behind his back to mask the slight tremble.

 

“It is not illogical to request a deferment of enrollment. If it were, deferments would not exist.”

 

Sarek does not so much as twitch an eyebrow in the face of his prepared argument. Spock represses the urge to shift nervously.

 

“Deferments are logical in the presence of pressing personal concerns. Illness, familial necessity, financial difficulty, or other such issues.” Sarek pauses, his eyes dark and impenetrable. “None of these are apply to you, my son.”

 

“I wish to be financially independent upon commencement of my studies off-planet. Therefore it was logical that I accept the offer of employment in the interest of accruing a positive balance.”

 

It is a flimsy excuse, and they both know it. Vulcan has never charged for education, and the cost of maintaining himself in housing and food during his studies will be minimal.

 

“Admirable, but completely unnecessary. You know that your mother and I are more than capable of supporting you while you complete your studies.” His father studies him for a moment. “Spock. I am not your adversary in this. I am simply seeking to understand your reasoning. Do me the courtesy of explaining yourself fully.”

 

Spock drops his head, his hands twisting uselessly behind his back. He can hear his father’s muted sigh.

 

“Spock. It is admirable that you are so concerned for your… friend. It is always admirable to have compassion for another living thing, and Earth as well as Vulcan honors the bonds of friendship and loyalty.”

 

He lifts his head. His father’s gaze is resigned.

 

“But?”

 

“But it concerns me, Spock, that you are so willing to renounce your own goals and desires to tend to such a one. Spock…” Sarek looks away for a moment, and Spock can see his gaze settle on the holo of Sybok in the corner. His only sibling, unknown to Spock himself on account of the irreconcilable rift between Sybok and Sarek. His only sibling, and the only being whom Spock knows that can change his father’s expression so fundamentally.

 

“Spock…” his father’s voice is gentle, and it makes Spock want illogically to shout, to throw things on the floor. He pulls air through his nose, clenches his fingers a little tighter. “… in order to help someone, they must want to be helped. One cannot force change where there is no desire for it.”

 

Spock looks away.

 

“I do not desire change. I simply desire to be present.”

 

Sarek regards him a moment longer, then nods.

 

“What is, is, my son. May it be as you intend.” He unclasps his fingers, the gesture a signal for Spock to go. “Live long, and prosper, Spock.”

 

“Father. Live long, and prosper.”

 

\---

 

“You did _what_?”

 

Perhaps, Spock thinks to himself, he did not think this all the way through.

 

“I accepted a job as an entry-level engineer at eFleet. I started on Monday.”

 

Jim looks away and snorts, muttering under his breath. “Welcome to Iowa. Enjoy our cornfields and purveyors of high-tech death.” Spock twitches an eyebrow, shifting his weight on his feet. Spock can see Jim’s fingers flexing back and forth as he processes the thought.

 

“ _Why_?” Jim spins back to face him, striding forward, his lean frame nearly as tall as Spock’s these days. “What about the VSA? What about _Starfleet_?” His eyes flash as he pushes forward into the transparent bubble of Spock’s personal space. “Why did you do this, Spock?”

 

“Jim, I…” He looks away, can’t meet Jim’s gaze. He is overwhelmed, suddenly, with the illogic of his decision, of the pure _emotionalism_ motivating this life choice.

 

It shows on his face, and he can see Jim’s eyes widen as it clicks, then narrow in fury. Jim pushes him in the chest, and Spock lets himself fall back a step, giving ground in the face of Jim’s flaring temper.

 

“Oh, _no_. No, no, _no_. You did _not_ compromise your future for me.” Jim shoves him again, and Spock’s back is suddenly against the wall, his face full of shining teeth and piercing eyes. “Tell me you didn’t, Spock. Tell me you didn’t just fuck yourself over for me.”

 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing for one heartbeat, then two, before Jim whirls and pounds down the stairs, the door slamming in his wake.

 

\--

 

He’s lain in bed for four point six hours before he hears the creak of the stairs, the padding of footsteps across the wooden floor. There’s a whisper of cloth and the subdued rattle of buttons, then a moment of silence broken only by the delicate noise of breathing. He lies perfectly still as Jim lifts the sheet and slides in, his bare skin pressing against Spock’s hip and side and arm as Jim winds himself like an eel around Spock’s assorted limbs. A tongue flicks at the shell of Spock’s ear, and he shudders involuntarily, hearing a low chuckle at his response.

 

“It’s just…” Jim’s breath is damp on his ear, loud in the pressing dark.  “It’s just that I never wanted you to give anything up. It’s not…” he pauses, swallows hard, “…it’s not that I don’t really fucking appreciate the gesture, Spock.” He pauses again, and Spock can’t help the tiny increase in pressure his fingers place on Jim’s arm. “I do. I love you more than anything, anyone, you know that, you have to know that. But Spock…” he sighs. “You could have gotten out of here. You could have done really well, and I would have been so proud of you, so _fucking_ proud of you.” He buries his face in Spock’s shoulder, his voice muffled and his hands clutching.

 

“What happens to me, it doesn’t matter. I’m nothing, not really. Just one more fucked up kid in middle America. But you, Spock, you’re special. You’re better than this. And now, Spock…” his voice is trailing off into sleep. “Spock… what have you _done_?”

 

His breathing slows, quiets, and when he has not twitched in more than eighteen minutes, Spock extricates a hand enough to slide it like a pale phantom onto Jim’s face, sliding into his head like oil on the surface of a lake, slipping into the meld as he’s done a hundred times.

 

The same stars arc overheard, the same dust swirls in the wind. But the cornstalk is withered and dry, the scent of rain far distant on the breeze.

 

He is in the meld, there is no mistaking it, but he is here alone.

 

\---

 

 

 _Fall 2247_

 

The door pushes open when Spock puts his hand to the keypad, so he closes the cover on the buttons and steps on in.

 

It’s late; he’s been working on a project for eFleet that was supposed to launch a month ago, but his co-workers are all inept at best and illiterate at worst, at least as far as he can tell, and so he’s been pulling late nights for two weeks now trying to sort out the mess that is their junior-level coding.

 

It’s only logical. He has no family to return home to, the way some of the other workers do; no spouse, no small children waiting on him. Besides, Vulcans need less rest than humans.

 

There’s a pool of light coming from the main room of the small apartment he has rented on the edge of town, and he can hear the muted bangs and shouts of the holo-screen. Upon his completion of school, his father had been transferred back to Vulcan to reluctantly accept a very logical and laudable promotion in the ambassadorial bureaucracy. His parents have retained ownership of the house, but Spock couldn’t abide the thought of living there alone, so they have closed it down and shuttered the windows, and Spock signed a month-to-month lease on this small space.

 

He sits on the low bench beside the doorway to pull off his boots, first one, then the other. He pauses, sock-footed, for a moment, letting the exhaustion seep through his muscles. He is tired. Deeply, achingly, tired.

 

He stands, removes his coat and scarf, lines his boots beside the bench, and hangs his eFleet id from the coat-rack. The sound of the holo-screen is pervasive, niggling in his ears as he walks into the living room to switch on the low table lamp, casting a soft glow throughout the small room.

 

Jim is asleep on the couch, a half-eaten sandwich and an open bag of chips drifting haphazardly across the coffee table, his face pressed into the arm of the sofa and his greasy fingers trailing across the throw. Spock represses a flare of annoyance. Jim looks like he’s been here all day. Suddenly Spock finds the idea of Jim, here, in his sweatpants, with his junk food, while Spock has spent fifteen hours being unfailingly polite to his intellectual inferiors and bureaucratic superiors, impressively irritating. Jim received his GED a while ago, and while Spock understands fully why he spends hardly any time at his house anymore, he also realizes that he’s not very clear on what it is exactly that Jim _does_ all day.

 

The subject of his gaze wakes abruptly, his hands pushing out in front of him in a reflex that never fails to bother Spock, who has tried hard not to think about the implications of Jim always waking up ready to fight or fly. There are places in Jim’s mind Spock has never pushed.

 

Jim comes to quickly, rubbing his eyes and cracking his neck before he reaches out for Spock like a child, sleep warm and sticky-fingered. Spock remains out of reach, leaning back to avoid the pulls at his dark shirt.

 

“Jim. You will wash your hands.”

 

Jim blinks, then frowns.

 

“Christ, _fine_.” He pulls himself off the couch and stumbles into the kitchenette, running water and splashing. His voice drifts back over the sound of the soap dropping into the metal sink. “Don’t act like you’re happy to see me, or anything.”

 

There’s a pang in Spock’s chest, and he hangs his head, waiting until Jim pads back out to press up against him before Spock wraps his arms around him, rubbing his nose into that spot on the edge of his hairline when he smells the most _Jim_.

 

“I am sorry.” He has to remind himself frequently that Jim is younger than he, and that even he himself is not yet out of his teens. Spock has felt middle-aged since birth, and it’s hard for him not to forget that when Jim acts like a sixteen year old, it is, in fact _because_ he is a sixteen year old, and not because he is emotionally or behaviorally deficient in some way.

 

Jim nuzzles in against him, warm and fuzzy at the edges of Spock’s consciousness. “’s ok. You’re tired. It’s fucking _late_ , why are they keeping you so late these days?” He’s pulling Spock with him, steering them both in a sleep-footed shuffle toward the bedroom. Spock obediently raises his arms to let Jim pull his work shirt over his head, unbuttoning his own pants and hanging them neatly over a hanger. Jim pulls his own potato-chip stained t-shirt off, tossing it vaguely in the direction of the corner, and Spock has to fight back a sudden flare of overwhelming irritation at this _other person_ pushing in and messing up _his space_.

 

He’s far too tired to repress it effectively, and Jim must feel it, if the sudden sharp-eyed look he gives Spock is any indication, but he keeps his mouth mercifully shut, pulling back the covers instead and sliding under them to scoot up next to Spock’s warm form.

 

“You never work on any projects of your own anymore.”

 

Jim’s voice is muffled, but the only thing that Spock can hear is a note of accusation.

 

“I do not have sufficient time to pursue leisure activities at this juncture.”

 

Jim pushes his face against Spock’s shoulder in silent apology.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Spock. I just mean…” he sighs. “You don’t seem very happy anymore. You used to get all happy when you worked on your own shit, all ‘this is fascinating, Jim’, and you know… I just thought…”

 

Spock is not mad. He is simply experiencing an illogical spike of emotion. It is no doubt because he needs to meditate with greater frequency.

 

“Spock?”

 

“What would you have me do, Jim?” His voice is calm, controlled. “I have responsibilities to my employer to complete the work assigned to me. I have responsibilities to my landlord to pay my rent in a timely manner. I have responsibilities to my family to do well on my chosen path.” He intentionally relaxes his hands. “What would you have me give up in order to ‘work on my own shit’?”

 

“I see.” Jim’s tone is clipped, and he rolls over suddenly, leaving a cold spot in the sheets between them. “So that’s how it is. All right, Spock. That’s fine, that’s good. It’s good that you’re responsible.” His voice is flat, brittle. “At least one of us is, right? Thank God for responsible Spock. Where would we all be without him?”

 

Like so many times recently, Spock finds himself at a loss for words. The silence stretches between them, and he considers reaching a hand out to his bedmate, but pulls back at the last moment. He has no desire to be brushed aside.

 

Eventually the silence gives way to Jim’s soft snores, but Spock’s eyes are wide open and stinging in the dark.

 

Four hours till dawn, he thinks, and he’s no more likely to sleep tonight than any other.

 

 

 _Winter 2248_

 

 

They fought that morning, before Spock went to work.

 

It was about nothing, really, like most fights; Jim had left the milk uncapped on the counter, again, and Spock had lectured him viciously about his utter lack of respect for any boundaries at all, _ever_ , whether they be of ethics or personal space or simple cleanliness. He had been horrified even as the words came pouring out, but he had also been powerless to stop himself, all the tension and stress and fatigue of the past months spewing out past his tongue and teeth in a river of poisoned invective.

 

He had never felt so _human_.

 

Jim had stared for a minute, mouth open in abject shock, then his eyes went flinty and cold and he began to give as good as he got. Spock, according to Jim, was the coldest, most calculating, least caring, least joyful, least accommodating being who had ever had the misfortune to lay a toe on Iowa’s soft dirt. He should never, _never_ , consider himself anything other than a _full_ heir to every arrogant, egotistic, self-centered and narcissistic ideal of the Vulcan race, and _furthermore_ , he should consider himself _well_ released from whatever _blind_ sense of obligated duty had been keeping him here the last six months, because he was a _damned_ _fool_ if he thought he’d ever be missed by anyone around.

 

It was over in a matter of minutes, the sound of the slamming door echoing throughout the hollow gut of the apartment. Spock could feel it at the same moment as the breeze from the door’s passage; this was wrong, and Jim knew it.

 

They both knew it.

 

For a moment his breath caught and he waited, waited for the door to open.

 

It didn’t, and the moment was lost, leaving Spock to lick his wounds in silence as he recapped the milk, placing it in the fridge and grabbing his keys to head to work.

 

 

It’s hours later now, and he’s sitting in front of the Kirk house, steeling himself to go in. Jim wasn’t home when he got back to the apartment, and he knew with the sinking feeling in his stomach that he had to go find him. He’s felt nauseous all day, and can feel the throb of _guilt/anger/pain_ from whatever thin connection it is that they have.

 

It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. It needs to be over, now.

 

He opens the door to the hovercar, gritting his teeth unconsciously as the chill February air hits his exposed face. There’s the faint sound of a crash from the house, and he looks up in sudden concern.

 

Frank is home.

 

He takes the steps two at a time, slipping in through the door oh-so-quietly, on alert in case Frank is awake and watching. The sounds of a fight are escalating down the hallway, so he slips into the dining room, moving through the shadows on sure feet.

 

“You _little_ piece of _shit_ , what are you _thinking_ coming back around here? You want a what, a fucking _handout_? A goddamn _medal_ for letting that slimy piece of alien _freak_ stick his dick up your ass?” Spock can hear the sound of a dish crashing against the wall, and Jim’s voice, low enough that he can’t make it out. “You little _motherfucker_.”

 

It’s enough. He rounds the corner in a heartbeat, transfixed for the briefest of moments by the tableau in front of him.

 

Jim is standing directly in front of the table, leaning forward in contempt, his teeth bared in a snarl made only more ferocious by the feverish glint in his glass blue eyes. His lip is split and dripping, the knuckles of his right hand bruising in the dim light. Frank is looming over him, a caricature of coarsened rage, his eyes bugging and his mouth open in a roar as his fist careens inextricably toward Jim’s face.

 

There is a rushing in his ears and a green tint across his gaze as everything begins to slow, flowing into a molasses-stretched river of time. He is across the room and in front of Frank before he even realizes that he has moved, his limbs stretching and collapsing in an unorchestrated ballet of deadly movement.

 

The first blow sends Frank crashing against the wall, the second caves in the side of his face with a gratifyingly pulpy crunch. The third releases the popping sounds of three formerly solid ribs.

 

The grip on his arm is devastatingly light, but the flood of raw emotion through the skin contact hauls him up short, sheer instinct being the only thing that relaxes the death-grip he has on Frank’s jowly throat.

 

“ _Spock_!”

 

Jim’s face is aghast, filled with incredulous horror even as he pulls Spock to him, cradling Spock against his chest, and when was it that Spock sat down? He’s not sure, but the floor is tilting alarmingly beneath him, and he can’t quite make out the words that Jim is murmuring over his head.

 

The sound of sirens is audible, and growing louder, mixing with the gurgling wheeze of Frank’s breath, so Spock turns his face into Jim’s shoulder and covers his ears.

 

 

 

 _Spring 2248_

The journey back to Vulcan takes two full weeks.

 

Two full weeks which do nothing to quiet Spock’s mind or heal his wounded heart.

 

There’s one scene that plays in his mind, circling over and over in his near-perfect memory.  It’s the glint of the emergency lights across Jim’s eyes; the contrasting red of the intermittent beams had turned the normally electric blue of his irises to a muddy brown, changing his face from that of someone known to a stranger.

 

Jim had reached for him, stretched out his arms as the burly officers hauled him away, but Spock had turned away.

 

He had failed Jim. Failed him in the most fundamental way. He had inserted his own emotion, his own _rage_ , and by falling prey to that undertow of feeling, had made an already bad situation immeasurably worse for one he claimed to love. The utter selfishness of the act was unforgivable; the lack of control inherent in allowing his judgment of a larger situation to be clouded by such base emotion was irreparable. There was no turning back.

 

He was no longer worthy, if he had ever been, to be reached for.

 

\--

 

Frank had survived, but only just. He would never look or speak the same. Spock stared at the images on the holovid from his detainment room, forcing himself to examine and memorize the damage inflicted by his own two hands.

 

It was a diplomatic incident. Relatively minor, fortunately, and quickly swept under the rug. Winona Kirk refused to press charges, and though Frank initially indicated that he would, he was willing to be placated by Spock’s immediate removal from Earth.

 

\--

 

They send the mind healer to him on the third day of his voyage, ostensibly to check on his ability to regulate any resulting emotional instability, but someone must have informed her of Jim’s unique presence in Spock’s life, because she wastes no time before asking permission to initiate a meld.

 

She seeks out the link with virtually no effort, scuffing her toe against the sand to reveal the striated bars of glass that underpin the whole landscape. It makes Spock feel nauseous to be here with anyone other than Jim, but he ruthlessly squashes the sensation before it can color the skyline with its hazy orange.

 

Her eyes when he meets them are troubled.

 

“Your link is unexpectedly extensive.”

 

He hangs his head. It is simply further proof of his inability to control himself in any regard when it comes to Jim.

 

“It must be broken.” Her tone is surprisingly gentle, but he can’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “You are both minors, and you are no longer allowed on Earth at this time. You have been forbidden contact until you are both of age, and that includes any mental connection.”

 

He nods once in agreement. It will be painful, he knows this; he will accept it as his rightful due. If he had not succumbed so easily to the temptation of emotion, he would not suffer now. It is only what he deserves.

 

“I will say this.” She draws herself up straight, folding her hands in front of her. “Look at me, child.”

 

Spock reluctantly raises his head. Her eyes are fathomless black in her serene face.

 

“Such a link, at such an age, indicates an uncommon affinity. Though this link cannot stay, it would behoove you, at some later time, to seek him out again. You are not likely to find such compatibility again in this life.”

 

He turns his face away. He will never seek Jim out. He will never inflict the damage of his presence on Jim again.

 

“Elder. Break the link.”

 

 

 _Summer 2248_

 

He had forced himself not to wonder why Spock hadn’t been in touch with him. Had pushed down ruthlessly on any hint of a thought, a hope, or an expectation that he might suddenly catch a glimpse of that familiar figure striding through the airlock, or across the spaceport, or down the dirt road to this new boarding house where he’s suppose to spend the next two years.

 

At first he plans to get a message to Spock himself, but after the third escape attempt fails, and more than two weeks has passed with no contact, he figures he’s not so stupid that he doesn’t recognize shunning when he sees it. And who could blame Spock, really? He’s gotten screwed for doing what he thought was the right thing, and it’s so clearly Jim’s fault that Jim can’t _begin_ to imagine that Spock doesn’t hate him now in some excruciatingly thorough and logical fashion.

 

How could he not?

 

He waits it out; the holding room, the endless interviews, the teary-eyed comms from his mother. He goes willingly onto the shuttle because at least he’s going somewhere away from this pissant little town. It’s a month-long journey to the planet that’s meant to be his new home, and he doesn’t even bother to hack the communications relay. Why should he? He can tell when he’s not wanted.

 

They finally make landfall one afternoon, and Jim shuffles into line with a range of other children roughly his age. Disembarkation is a simple and quick matter, consisting of a walk down the boarding ramp and a single file line to shake the hand of a smiling older man who waits at the end.

 

Jim takes the requisite steps forward, holds out his hand to be clutched by this man with his neat goatee and rank insignia. He squints in the bright sun, struggling to make out the man’s features as he beams down at Jim.

 

“Welcome, my boy!” The man has too many teeth, Jim thinks. Men with that many teeth are never what they seem. He returns the handshake absently, raising a hand to his eyes to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow. “Welcome to Tarsus IV!”

  
 _[ **"Truth Doesn't Make A Noise"** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qs-QkRaocqA) _

_My baby's got a heart of stone  
can't you people just leave her alone  
she never did nothing to hurt you  
so just leave her alone_

 _The motion of her tiny hands  
and the quiver of her bones below  
are the signs of a girl alone  
and tell you everything  
you need to know_

 _I can't explain it  
I feel it often  
everytime I see her face  
but the way you treat her  
fills me with rage and I  
want to tear apart the place_

 _You try to tell her what to do  
and all she does is stare at you  
her stare is louder than your voice  
because truth doesn't make a noise _


	12. Same Boy You've Always Known

**Title:** The Same Boy You've Always Known  
 **Universe/Series:** AU  
 **Rating:** R for language, sexual acts, somewhat graphic violence  
 **Relationship status:** First Time (eventually)  
 **Word count:** 1,950  
 **Genre:** h/c, angst  
 **Trope** : kid!fic, family, friendship  
 **Warnings:**   language for this part  
Pairing: k/s, no others.  
 **Beta** : the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious [ **13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/), object of my logical adoration. also thanks to [**medea_fic**](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/)  for the ongoing cheerleading. also to my lovely husband, who is reading over my shoulder. hi, sweetie. :D

  
A/N Pt.2 : OMG IT'S FINALLY OVER. thank you SO FRIKKIN MUCH to [](http://13empress.livejournal.com/profile)[**13empress**](http://13empress.livejournal.com/) . couldn't have done it without you. and to [](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[ **medea_fic**](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/) , for absorbing a lot of angst about finishing this thing. and to anyone who has stuck with this through the abysmal posting schedule, THANK YOU and i'm really very sorry about the last few months! ack.

hope it was worth the wait!

 

\--

He doesn't have time to even give it a second thought until he's falling from the shuttle, plummeting to the surface of the planet in a parabolic arc as silence roars past him like the blood in his ears.

Spock.

He hadn't believed it, when they had stood across from each other at the hearing. Could not reconcile this cold, superior, adult Vulcan with the brilliant and heartbroken child-man he had last seen twelve years ago.

 

“Who was that pointy-eared bastard?”

 

He’d known, he thinks. Deep down, he’d known. He couldn’t fail to know that face, that voice, that sneer. He just didn’t, couldn’t believe it. How could it be? How could he have been here for _three fucking years_ , and never known? Never even suspected?

 

The planet’s surface is drawing closer, rushing toward him with the implacable constancy of inanimate objects. The metallic chained links of the drill are speeding past at an uncomfortably close proximity to his body, and he can see the platform coming into view.

 

He’d given up on contacting Spock long, long ago. By the time he’d recovered _(recovered. Ha. A word with variable definitions_ ) from Tarsus, he’d been gone so long with no word, he didn’t even bother to look.

 

He’d searched just once, on Spock’s birthday years ago. He’d turned up Sarek and Amanda’s address on Vulcan, but nothing on Spock but firewalls. He could have gotten around them, if he’d really wanted to. But at that point there wasn’t anything he really wanted, beyond knowing where his next beer was coming from, so he hadn’t bothered. He’d lived his life in a predictable, if somewhat uninspiring, fashion until Pike had plucked him from the bowels of obscurity and hauled his sorry ass to StarFleet.

 

StarFleet was big. Thousands and thousands of cadets, another thousand teachers. Buildings upon buildings upon buildings. And if he knew Spock at all, Spock would have holed himself up in the nearest corner and stayed there every moment, avoiding interaction as much as he could get away with and still get paid.

 

Still. The odds…

 

He hears a snap above him as Sulu pulls his chute, and counts to five before yanking the cord of his own, catching with a jerk and swinging as the cloth slows his fall to the pock-marked platform of the Romulan drill.

 

Olson plunges past him, his laughter crackling through the head comms, and Jim forces himself to concentrate on his landing.

 

He’ll think about this later, after he survives.

 

\--

 

He wants to be grateful when he and Sulu hit the transporter pad instead of the solid rock, but he doesn’t have time. The breath is knocked out of him with a thunk, and immediately he hears a voice telling him to clear the pad, clear the pad.

 

He rolls off without thinking, but looks up and sees him, already moving into a crouch and locking eyes with whatever strange child genius it is who just saved his and Sulu’s asses.

 

“I am going to the surface.” The genius looks appalled, but few people ever bothered to argue with Spock’s determined face, and it looks like that’s still true.

 

Then it hits him.

 

“The surface of _what_?? Spock, you can’t _do_ that!”

 

He feels his face stretch in horror, but it’s too late.

 

“Energize.”

 

There’s the briefest of moments when he thinks Spock turns to look at him, but the shimmering light of transport takes him, and Jim can’t ever be sure.

 

\---

 

He wakes on an ice planet, far from anywhere he’s ever been in his life, and utterly, completely alone.

 

Hauls himself out of the pod, because really, stay there? And wait? _Never_.

 

“Acting Captain Spock has marooned me on Delta Vega in what I believe to be a violation of security protocol 49.09, governing the treatment of prisoners aboard a…”

 

There’s a sound, a stench, and a gaping maw, and then he’s running for his life, welcoming the uninterrupted clarity that comes with the survival imperative; one foot, second foot, one foot, second foot, repeat until eaten.

 

It’s the cave that saves him, the cave and a stranger. A stranger who is standing in front of him saying his name, and if this is the fucking weirdest dream he’s ever had, he’d really like to wake up. _Right_. _Now_.

 

 

\--

 

The meld tears through him, laying him bare in the way that only Spock has ever been able to, and no matter what he said to this man about them not being friends, the truth is that he hadn’t realized how desperately, achingly he misses _his_ Spock until this old bastard ripped the lid clean off it.

 

Now he knows. It’s an endless chasm in his midst, and he can’t find the way to close it again, not while this heartbroken Vulcan with Spock’s eyes is staring at him like he holds every answer in the calloused palms of his too-cold hands.

 

Jim can feel the weight of those eyes, and his gut rolls within him even as he scrabbles against the icy wall.

 

“So you _do_ feel.”

 

Spock’s eyes are immeasurably vast and infinitely compassionate. Jim’s no fool; he’s been through Spock’s pain, and he knows that more than a little of whatever monstrosities lurk in his grey matter have bled across. He wipes at his eyes, simultaneously heartwrenched and freer than he’s been in years.

 

“Yes, Jim. I do.”

 

\--

 

“I am emotionally compromised.”

 

The words pound through Jim’s head as he lets Cupcake haul him up the the bridge. Emotionally compromised. Jim shakes his head. He hadn’t been sure Spock was capable of such a thing.

 

 _Emotionally compromised_. He can feel the fury building within him. Spock had certainly never been _emotionally compromised_ over him, had he? He feels it with a solidity in his gut, settling as the turbolift doors open, letting his blood begin to run hot in his veins. The truth is, he thinks as he raises his head, Spock must have never cared for him at all.

 

Spock’s voice prods at his eardrums, sharp and short as it never was on Earth, picking picking picking at Jim, but this is the kind of conflict Jim loves best. The _personal_ kind.

 

“Does that _frustrate_ you? My lack of cooperation?” He tips his head, watching as Spock’s eyes flare at the intrusion of his personal space. “Does it make you angry?”

 

 _Are you angry, Spock? Were you angry?_

 

There’s a flash across Spock’s face,  and then it’s gone, but Jim knows he can do this, knows that whoever this straight-faced stranger is, Jim still holds all the cards, and he’s got the Ace up his sleeve.

 

“ _Are_ you afraid or _aren’t_ you?”

 

 _Were you ever afraid Spock? Of anything? Of losing me? Of having lost me?_

 

“I will not allow you to lecture me on the merits of emotion.”

 

 _No, of course not. You never did_.

 

“What’s it like? Not to _feel_? Anger. Or heartbreak…”

 

 _You had me so fooled. I loved you, Spock. And now…_

 

“Back. _Away_.”

 

Jim’s too far gone to even register the raising of the hair on his arms in response to the clear and present danger in Spock’s voice. He pushes forward, close enough to see Spock’s eye’s widen, close enough to taste his breath.

 

“You don’t feel _anything_. It must not even _compute_ for you. You _never_ loved her…” _me_

 

Spock is on him with a roar, and it’s only instinct that spares him in the next few seconds. He’s moving beyond thought, parrying and striking with the moves he learned from Sarek so many years ago, but it can’t last. Spock is impossibly fast and impossibly full of rage, and it’s all over before Jim can even figure out what is going on. He’s on his back on a console, and those fingers, Spock’s fingers are around his neck.

 

He gasps, once, twice, and then his eyes roll back as he is thrust into the meld again, crashing on a swirl of unrecognizable emotions. Guilt and pain and hatred and revulsion and a deep-seated longing that rivals the black hole of  his own. A vast sea of remorse overridden only by blind rage, and all around him the discordant strings of a ill-used heart.

 

There’s a moment, then someone speaks, and all Jim can do is sag against the plastic as those hands leave his body entirely.

 

If he could follow them, he would, but he can’t even stand, so he breathes, rasping incoherently through his damaged throat as Spock vacates the bridge.

 

She’s looking at him like something she wiped off her shoe, and after the flood that’s still settling in his mind, he can only agree.

 

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, _Captain_.”

 

He wants to laugh, burst into hysterics, but he can’t, he can’t.

 

“So do I.”

 

\--

 

And then it’s over. Nero has fallen in the abyss, the lightning storm in space swallowing him whole, just as it spat him forth so many years ago. Earth is saved, and they are heroes.

 

He feels like he’s been living in a dream ever since the day of his academic hearing. Hell, ever since the day he met Pike in that bar, really.

 

Ever since the day Spock was taken away.

 

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

 

The rest of the words are just noise; lips moving without any meaningful gravity. He nods, smiles.

 

The salient point is this; Spock is here. Is going to continue to be here. With him.

 

 _With him_.

 

 

\--

 

 

He sits through the whole first shift, zoned out on the surreality of his life. He signs his name to the requisite bureaucracy forms, checks and double checks their headings against their orders. Teases Chekov about his curls.

 

Then it’s over, and he’s in the turbolift, moving blessedly away from the bridge. Makes it to his door, keys the entry code, and steps in.

 

“Captain!”

 

There’s someone behind him, but he doesn’t look back, _never look back_ , just steps forward and forward again until he’s in the center of the room. There’s a heated hand on his arm, and he doesn’t know what to say what to do, so Spock turns him around slowly, never loosening his grip.

 

“ _Jim_ …”

 

He can tell he’s staring, but he can’t form words, and that look on Spock’s face is taking him back to Spock in the cornfields with pollen in his hair, Spock with his lips pressed red from kissing, Spock with his face gone utterly still as the officer hauls him to his feet.

 

Spock with the look of hope crossed with determination as he settles into the chair of the Jellyfish, intent on saving _everything_ , no matter what the cost.

 

Spock’s eyes are wide in his sockets, the skin around them crinkling with tension, and it’s been nearly fifteen years since he’s had a chance to look at the topography of this face so close up.

 

“What now?” His voice is thin, so he coughs, tries again. “What _now_ , Spock?”

 

Spock’s mouth twitches, and Jim couldn’t say for anything if it was in a smile or a wince. He raises a green-tinged hand to trace the curve of Jim’s cheek.

 

There is a flash, and they lock eyes. A blue spark burns itself out in the afterimage of their peripheral vision.

 

“We start again.” Spock’s voice is firm, his shoulders squared, and Jim feels like he can breathe fully for the first time in over a decade. “We start over.”

 

Jim nods once, raising his finger to touch lightly to Spock’s wrist.

 

“This time…”he breathes, rewarded by the fierce look in those dark eyes, “this time on _our_ terms.”

  
 _  
[Same Boy You've Always Known](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-E5EdVZkAY)   
_

_You fell down of course  
and then you got up of course  
and you started over  
forgot my name of course  
then you started to remember  
pretty tough to think about  
the beginning of december  
pretty tough to think about_

 _You're looking down again  
and then you look me over  
we're laying down again  
on a blanket in the clover  
the same boy you've always known  
well I guess I haven't grown  
the same boy you've always known_

 _Think of what the past did  
it could 've lasted  
so put it in your basket  
I hope you know a strong man  
who can lend you a hand  
lowering my casket_

 _I thought this is just today  
and soon you'd been returning  
the coldest blue ocean water  
cannot stop my heart and mind  
from burning  
everyone who's in the know says  
that's exactly how it goes  
and if there's anything good about me  
I'm the only one who knows_


End file.
